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| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-03-23 16:21:03 -0700 |
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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-03-23 16:21:03 -0700 |
| commit | 5412b5d8ed969f6c05172c7c15642cbd424b7ee3 (patch) | |
| tree | b2d71c44dcbe81457f66dbbb0fc961672a5042cc /75697-h | |
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diff --git a/75697-h/75697-h.htm b/75697-h/75697-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4476ce3 --- /dev/null +++ b/75697-h/75697-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16233 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + The End of the Trail | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +a { + text-decoration: none; +} + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2,h3 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +h2.nobreak { + page-break-before: avoid; +} + +hr.chap { + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + clear: both; + width: 65%; + margin-left: 17.5%; + margin-right: 17.5%; +} + +img.w100 { + width: 100%; +} + +div.chapter { + page-break-before: always; +} + +ul { + list-style-type: none; +} + +li.indx { + margin-top: .5em; + padding-left: 2em; + text-indent: -2em; +} + +li.ifrst { + margin-top: 2em; + padding-left: 2em; + text-indent: -2em; +} + +li.isub1 { + padding-left: 4em; + text-indent: -2em; +} + +p { + margin-top: 0.5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; + text-indent: 1em; +} + +table { + margin: 1em auto 1em auto; + max-width: 40em; + border-collapse: collapse; +} + +td { + padding-left: 2.25em; + padding-right: 0.25em; + vertical-align: top; + text-indent: -2em; + text-align: justify; +} + +.tdc { + text-align: center; +} + +.tdr { + text-align: right; +} + +.tdpg { + vertical-align: bottom; + text-align: right; + white-space: nowrap; +} + +.caption p { + text-align: center; + margin-bottom: 1em; + font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0em; +} + +.caption table { + min-width: 100%; + margin-bottom: 0; +} + +.caption td { + padding-left: 0.25em; +} + +.caption .td3 { + width: 33%; +} + +.caption .td2 { + width: 49%; +} + +.caption p.attr { + text-align: left; + font-size: 85%; + margin-bottom: 0; +} + +.center { + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; +} + +.dedication { + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + line-height: 1.8em; +} + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +.larger { + font-size: 150%; +} + +.noindent { + text-indent: 0em; +} + +.pagenum { + position: absolute; + right: 4%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; +} + +.poetry-container { + text-align: center; +} + +.poetry { + display: inline-block; + text-align: left; +} + +.poetry .stanza { + margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em; +} + +.poetry .verse { + padding-left: 3em; +} + +.poetry .indent0 { + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poetry .indent2 { + text-indent: -2em; +} + +.right { + text-align: right; +} + +.smaller { + font-size: 80%; +} + +.smcap { + font-variant: small-caps; + font-style: normal; +} + +.tb { + margin-top: 2em; +} + +.titlepage { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 3em; + text-indent: 0em; +} + +.x-ebookmaker img { + max-width: 100%; + width: auto; + height: auto; +} + +.x-ebookmaker .poetry { + display: block; + margin-left: 1.5em; +} + +.illowp100 {width: 100%;} +.illowp50 {width: 50%;} +.x-ebookmaker .illowp50 {width: 100%;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75697 ***</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_i"></a>[i]</span></p> + +<h1>THE END OF THE TRAIL</h1> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus01" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus01.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by H. A. + Erickson, Coronado, Cal.</i></p> + <p>THE PROMISED LAND.</p> + <p>Looking southward to the Gulf of California—and Mexico.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="BOOKS_BY_E_ALEXANDER_POWELL">BOOKS BY E. ALEXANDER POWELL</h2> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Published by CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</span></p> + +</div> + +<table> + <tr> + <td>THE LAST FRONTIER: <span class="smcap">The White Man’s War for<br> + Civilization in Africa</span>. Illustrated. 8vo</td> + <td class="tdpg"><i>net</i> $1.50</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>GENTLEMEN ROVERS. Illustrated. 8vo</td> + <td class="tdpg"><i>net</i> $1.50</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>THE END OF THE TRAIL. Illustrated. 8vo</td> + <td class="tdpg"><i>net</i> $3.00</td> + </tr> +</table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ii"></a>[ii]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_iii"></a>[iii]</span></p> + +<p class="titlepage larger"><span class="smaller">THE</span><br> +END OF THE TRAIL</p> + +<p class="center">THE FAR WEST FROM<br> +NEW MEXICO TO BRITISH COLUMBIA</p> + +<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br> +E. ALEXANDER POWELL, F.R.G.S.<br> +<span class="smaller">AUTHOR OF “THE LAST FRONTIER,” “GENTLEMEN ROVERS,” ETC., ETC.</span></p> + +<p class="titlepage"><i>WITH FORTY-EIGHT FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS<br> +AND A MAP</i></p> + +<p class="titlepage">NEW YORK<br> +CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS<br> +<span class="smaller">1914</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_iv"></a>[iv]</span></p> + +<p class="titlepage smaller"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1914, by<br> +CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</span></p> + +<p class="center smaller">Published November, 1914</p> + +<figure class="figcenter titlepage illowp100" id="signet" style="max-width: 9.375em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/signet.jpg" alt=""> +</figure> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_v"></a>[v]</span></p> + +<p class="dedication">TO<br> +<span class="smaller">MY FRIEND AND FELLOW-ADVENTURER</span><br> +ALBERT C. KUHN<br> +<span class="smaller">OF<br> +RANCHO YERBA BUENA<br> +IN “THE VALLEY OF HEART’S DELIGHT”</span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vi"></a>[vi]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vii"></a>[vii]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="FOREWORD">FOREWORD</h2> + +</div> + +<p>In the dim dawn of history the Aryans, forsaking +the birthplace of the race upon the Caspian shore, +poured through the passes of the Caucasus and peopled +Europe. By caravel and merchantman adventuring +Europeans crossed the western ocean and established +a fringe of settlements along this continent’s eastern +rim. The American pioneers, taking up the historic +march, slowly but inexorably pressed westward, from +the Hudson to the Ohio, from the Ohio to the Mississippi, +from the Mississippi across the plains, across the +Rockies, until athwart the line of their advance they +found another ocean. They could go no farther, for +beyond that ocean lay the overpopulated countries of +the yellow race. The white man had completed his +age-long migration toward the beckoning West; his +march was finished; in the golden lands which look +upon the Pacific he had come to the End of the Trail.</p> + +<p>In the great march which substituted the wheat-field +for the desert, the orchard for the forest, the +work was done by the hardiest breed of adventurers +that ever foreran the columns of civilisation—the +Pioneers. And the pioneer has always lived on the +frontier. Most people believe that there is no longer +any quarter of this continent that can properly be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_viii"></a>[viii]</span> +called the frontier and that the pioneer is as extinct +as the buffalo. To prove that they are wrong I have +written this book. Though the gambler and the gun-fighter +have vanished before the storm of public disapproval; +though the bison no longer roams the ranges; +though the express rider has given way to the express-train; +in the hinterland of that vast region which +sweeps westward and northward from the Pecos to +the Skeena, and which includes New Mexico, Arizona, +California, Oregon, Washington, British Columbia, +frontier conditions still endure and the frontiersman is +still to be found. In the unexplored and unexploited +portions of this, “the Last West,” white-topped prairie +schooners—full sisters of those which crossed the +plains in ’49—creak into the wilderness in the wake of +the home seeker; the settler chops his little farmstead +from the virgin forest and rears his cabin of logs from +the trees which grew upon the site; mile-long pack-trains +wend their way into the northern wild; six-horse +Concord coaches tear along the roads amid +rolling clouds of dust, their scarlet bodies swaying +drunkenly upon their leathern springs; out in the back +country, where the roads run out and the trails begin, +the cow-puncher still rides the ranges in his picturesque +panoply of high-crowned Stetson and Angora chaps +and vivid shirt. But this is the last call. It is the +last chance to see a nation in the primeval stage of +its existence. In a few more years, a very few, there +will be no place on this continent, or on any continent, +that can truthfully be called the frontier, and with it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ix"></a>[ix]</span> +will disappear, never to return, those stern and hardy +figures—the pioneer, the prospector, the packer, the +puncher—who won for us the West.</p> + +<p>The <i>real</i> West—and by the term I do not mean +that sun-kissed, flower-carpeted coast zone, with its +orange groves and apple orchards, its palatial mansions +and luxurious hotels, its fashionable resorts and +teeming, all-of-a-sudden cities, which stretches from +San Diego to Vancouver and which to the Eastern +visitor represents “the West”—cannot be seen from +the terraces of tourist hostelries or the observation +platforms of transcontinental trains. Because I wished +to visit those portions of the West which cannot be +viewed from a car-window and because I wished to acquaint +myself with the characteristics and problems +and ideals of the people who dwell in them, I travelled +from Mexico to the borders of Alaska by motor-car—the +only time, I believe, that a car has made that +journey on its own wheels and under its own power. +Because that journey was so crowded with incident +and obstacle and adventure, and because the incidents +and obstacles and adventures thus encountered so +graphically illustrate the conditions which prevail in +“the Last West,” is my excuse for having to a certain +extent made a personal narrative of the following +chapters.</p> + +<p>Without entering into a tedious recital of distances +and road conditions, I have outlined certain +routes which the motorist who contemplates turning +the bonnet of his car westward might follow with profit<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_x"></a>[x]</span> +and pleasure. With no desire to usurp the guide-book’s +place, I have deemed it as important to describe +that enchanted littoral which has become the nation’s +winter playground as to depict that back country +which the tourist seldom sees. Though I hold no +brief for boards of trade and kindred organisations, I +have incorporated the more significant facts and figures +as to land values, soils, crops, climates, and resources +which every prospective home-seeker wishes to know. +But, more than anything else, I have tried to convey +something of the spell of that big, open, unfenced, keep-on-the-grass, +do-as-you-please, glad-to-see-you land and +of the spirit of energy, industry, and determination +which animates the kindly, hospitable, big-hearted, +broad-minded, open-handed men who dwell there. +They are the modern Argonauts, the present-day +Pioneers. To them, across the miles, I lift my glass.</p> + +<p class="right"><span class="smcap">E. Alexander Powell.</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xi"></a>[xi]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> + +</div> + +<table> + <tr> + <td class="tdr smaller">CHAPTER</td> + <td></td> + <td class="tdpg smaller">PAGE</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">I.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">Conquerors of Sun and Sand</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#I">1</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">II.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">The Skylanders</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#II">33</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">III.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">Chopping a Path to To-Morrow</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#III">61</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">IV.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">The Land of Dreams-Come-True</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#IV">95</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">V.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">Where Gold Grows on Trees</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#V">123</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">VI.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">The Coast of Fairyland</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#VI">155</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">VII.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">The Valley of Heart’s Delight</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#VII">187</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">VIII.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">The Modern Argonauts</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#VIII">211</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">IX.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">The Inland Empire</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#IX">237</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">X.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">“Where Rolls the Oregon”</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#X">271</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XI.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">A Frontier Arcady</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#XI">305</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XII.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">Breaking the Wilderness</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#XII">329</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XIII.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">Clinching the Rivets of Empire</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#XIII">351</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XIV.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">Back of Beyond</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#XIV">387</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">XV.</td> + <td><span class="smcap">The Map that is Half Unrolled</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#XV">419</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr"></td> + <td><span class="smcap">Index</span></td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#INDEX">455</a></td> + </tr> +</table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xii"></a>[xii]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xiii"></a>[xiii]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="ILLUSTRATIONS">ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> + +</div> + +<table> + <tr> + <td>The Promised Land</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus01"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td></td> + <td class="tdpg smaller">FACING PAGE</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>A Desert Dawn in New Mexico</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus02">4</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Santa Fé: the Most Picturesque City between the Oceans</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus03">18</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Remains of an Ancient Civilisation</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus04">24</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>The Land of the Turquoise Sky</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus05">38</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Acoma: Supposed Ancient Site and Present Site</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus06">40</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Acoma as It is To-Day</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus07">44</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Acoma Hunter Home from the Hunt</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus08">48</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Acoma Artisans</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus09">50</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>“Dance Mad!”</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus10">52</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Young Acomans</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus11">54</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>The Education of a Young Hopi</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus12">56</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>The Pyramid-Pueblo of Taos</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus13">58</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>The Passing of the Puncher</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus14">64</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Where the Roads Run Out and the Trails Begin</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus15">72</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>The Trail of a Thousand Thrills</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus16">88</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Throwing the Diamond Hitch</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus17">90</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Scenes in the Motor Journey Through Arizona</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus18">98</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Not in Catalonia but in California</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus19">120</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xiv"></a>[xiv]</span></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>A Modern Version of the Sermon on the Mount</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus20">130</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Santa Barbara, a City of Contrasts</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus21">168</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>The Mission of Santa Barbara</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus22">170</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Lake Tahoe from the Slopes of the High Sierras</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus23">232</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>The Yosemite—and a Lady Who Didn’t Know Fear</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus24">250</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Yosemite Youngsters, White and Red</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus25">252</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>The Greatest Oil Fields in the World</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus26">260</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Over the Tehachapis</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus27">262</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>The Overland Mail</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus28">274</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>In the Oregon Hinterland</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus29">284</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>“Where Rolls the Oregon”</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus30">300</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Where Rods Bend Double and Reels Go Whir-r-r-r</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus31">324</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>What the Road-Builders Have Done in Washington</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus32">332</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>The Unexplored Olympics</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus33">344</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Where the Salmon Come from</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus34">348</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Outposts of Civilisation</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus35">354</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Breaking the Wilderness</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus36">356</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Pack-Horses and a Pack-Dog</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus37">358</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>In the Great, Still Land</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus38">362</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Sport on Vancouver Island</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus39">376</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Life at the Back of Beyond</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus40">380</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Transport on America’s Last Frontier</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus41">382</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Transport on America’s Last Frontier</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus42">384</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Scenes on the Cariboo Trail</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus43">400</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Some Ladies from the Upper Skeena</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus44">422</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_xv"></a>[xv]</span></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Where No Motor-Car Had Ever Gone: Some Incidents of Mr. Powell’s Journey Through the British Columbian Wilderness</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus45">428</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Some Siwash Cemeteries</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus46">448</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Heraldry in the Hinterland</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus47">450</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>A Land of Sublimity and Magnificence and Grandeur, of Gloom and + Loneliness and Dread</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#illus48">452</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Map of the Far West, from New Mexico to British Columbia, Showing + the Route Followed by the Author</td> + <td class="tdpg"><a href="#map"><i>at end of volume</i></a></td> + </tr> +</table> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a>[1]</span></p> + +<h1>THE END OF THE TRAIL</h1> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="I">I<br> +<span class="smaller">CONQUERORS OF SUN AND SAND</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a>[2]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“The song of the deed in the doing, of the work still hot from the hand;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of the yoke of man laid friendly-wise on the neck of a tameless land.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">While your merchandise is weighing, we will bit and bridle and rein</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The floods of the storm-rocked mountains and lead them down to the plain;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the foam-ribbed, dark-hued waters, tired from that mighty race,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shall lie at the feet of palm and vine and know their appointed place;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And out of that subtle union, desert and mountain-flood,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shall be homes for a nation’s choosing, where no homes else had stood.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>[3]</span></p> + +<h3>I<br> +<span class="smaller">CONQUERORS OF SUN AND SAND</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>“Isn’t this invigorating?” said a passenger on the +Sunset Limited to a lounger on a station platform +as he inhaled delightedly the crisp, clear air of New +Mexico.</p> + +<p>“No, sir,” replied the man, who happened to be a +native filled with civic pride; “this is Deming.”</p> + +<p>The story <i>may</i> be true, of course; but if it isn’t it +ought to be, for it is wholly typical of the attitude of +the citizens of the youngest-but-one of our national +family. Indeed, I had not spent twenty-four hours +within the borders of the State before I had discovered +that the most characteristic and likeable qualities of its +inhabitants are their pride and faith in the land wherein +they dwell. And this despite the fact that their neighbours +across the line in Arizona refer to New Mexico +slightingly—though not without some truth—as a State +“where they dig for water and plough for wood.”</p> + +<p>Perhaps no region in the world, certainly none in +the United States, has changed so remarkably in the +space of a single decade. Ten years ago the only things +suggested by a mention of New Mexico were cowboys,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>[4]</span> +Hopi snake-dances, Navajo blankets, and Harvey eating-houses. +Five years ago Deming was as typical a +cow-town as you could find west of the Pecos. Gin-palaces +and gambling-hells were running twenty-four +hours a day; cattlemen in Angora chaps and high-crowned +sombreros lounged under the shade of the +wooden awnings and used the sidewalks of yellow pine +for cuspidors; wiry, unkempt cow-ponies stood in rows +along the hitching rails which lined a street ankle-deep +in dust. Those were the careless days of “chaps and +taps and latigo-straps,” when writers of the Wild West +school of fiction could find characters, satisfying as +though made to their order, in every barroom, and +groups of spurred and booted figures awaited the +moving-picture man (who had not then come into his +own) on every corner.</p> + +<p>All southern New Mexico was held by experts—at +least they called themselves experts—to be a waterless +and next-to-good-for-nothing waste. Government +engineers had traversed the region and, without considering +it worth the time or trouble to sink test wells, +had written it down in their reports as being a worthless +desert; and the gentlemen who make the school +geographies and the atlases followed suit by painting +it a speckled yellow, like the Sahara and the Kalahari. +Real-estate operators, racing westward to earn a few +speculative millions in California, glanced from the +windows of their Pullmans at the tedious expanse of +sun-swept sand and, with a regretful sigh that Providence +had been so careless as to forget the water, settled<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[5]</span> +back to their magazines and their cigars. So the +cattlemen who had turned their longhorns in among +the straggling scrub, to get such a living as they could +from the sparse desert grasses, were left in undisturbed +possession, and if their uniform success in finding water +wherever they sank their infrequent wells suggested +any agricultural possibilities they were careful to keep +the thought to themselves.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus02" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus02.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph + copyright by Fred Harvey.</i></p> + <p>A DESERT DAWN IN NEW MEXICO.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>One day, however, one of the men in the Pullman, +instead of leaning back regretfully, descended from the +train, hired a horse, and rode out into the mesquite-dotted +waste. He told the liveryman that he was a +prospector, and, in a manner of speaking, he was. +Being, incidentally, the manager of one of the largest +and most profitable ranches in California, he was as +familiar with the vagaries of the desert as a cowboy +is with the caprices of his pony; and, moreover, he +understood the science of irrigation from I to N. +After a few days of quiet investigation he dropped +into the commissioner’s office in Deming one morning +and filed a claim for several hundred acres of land. +Most of those who heard about it said that he was +merely a fool of a tenderfoot who was throwing away +his time and money and who ought to have a guardian +appointed to take care of him, but some of the wise +old cattlemen looked worried. Within a fortnight he +had erected his machinery and was drilling for water. +And wherever his wells went down, there water came +up: fine, clear, sparkling water—gallons and gallons of +it. It soused the thirsty desert and turned its good-for-nothing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[6]</span> +sand into good-for-anything loam. The +seeds which the far-seeing Californian planted, +sprouted, and the sprouts became blades, and the +blades shot into stalks of alfalfa and corn and cane—and +the future of all southern New Mexico was assured.</p> + +<p>The news of the discovery of water in the Mimbres +valley and of the miracles that had been performed +through its agency spread over the country +as though by wireless, and sun-tanned, horny-handed +men from half the States in the Union began to pile +into Deming by every train, eager to take up the land +while it was still to be had under the hospitable terms +of the Homestead and Desert Land acts. It was in +1910 that the Californian, John Hund, sunk his first +well; when I was in the office of the United States +commissioner in Deming four years later I found that +the nearest unoccupied land was sixteen miles from +the city limits.</p> + +<p>Should you ever have occasion to fly over New +Mexico in an aeroplane you will have no difficulty +whatever in recognising the Mimbres valley; viewed +from the sky it looks exactly like a bright-green rug +spread across one end of a vast hardwood floor. Most +of the valley holdings were, I noticed, of but ten or +twenty acres, comparatively few of them being more +than fifty, for the New Mexican homesteader has found +that his bank-account increases faster if he cultivates +ten acres thoroughly rather than a hundred superficially. +This lesson they have had hammered into<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span> +them not alone from experience but from observing +the operations of a couple of almond-eyed brethren +named Wah, hailing originally, I believe, from Canton, +who own a twenty-three-acre truck-farm near Deming. +Those vineyards on the slopes of Capri and those +farmsteads clinging to the rocky hillsides of Calabria, +where soil of any kind is so precious that every inch is +tended with pathetic care, seem but crude and amateurish +efforts in agriculture when compared with the efforts +to which these Chinese brothers have carried their +intensive farming. Though watered only by a small +and primitive well, their farm graphically illustrates +what can be accomplished by paying attention to those +little things which the American farmer is accustomed +contemptuously to disregard, as well as being an object-lesson +in the remarkable variety of fruits and vegetables +which the valley is capable of producing. These +Chinamen make every one of their acres produce three +crops of vegetables a year. Not a foot of soil is wasted. +They even begrudge the narrow strips which are +used for paths. Fruit-trees and grape-vines border the +banks of the irrigation channels, and peas, beans, and +tomatoes are grown between melon rows. A drove of +corpulent porkers attend voraciously to the garden +refuse and even the reservoir has had its usefulness +doubled by being stocked with fish. Were the New +Mexicans notoriously <i>not</i> lotus-eaters, the Brothers +Wah would doubtless find still another use for their +reservoir by raising in it the Egyptian water-lily. It +is paying attention to such relatively insignificant<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[8]</span> +details as these which makes J. Chinaman, Esquire, +the best gardener in the world. It pays, too, for they +told me in Deming that the Wahs, from their twenty-three-acre +holding, are increasing their bank-account +at the rate of eight thousand dollars a year. After +noting the cordiality with which they were greeted by +the president of the local bank, I did not doubt it. I +should like to have a bank president greet me the way +he did them.</p> + +<p>I have seen many remarkable farming countries—in +Rhodesia, for example, and the hinterland of +Morocco, and the Crimea, and the prairie provinces of +Canada, not to mention the Santa Clara and the Imperial +valleys of California—but I can recall none +where soil and climate seemed to have combined so +effectively to befriend the farmer as in the valley of the +Mimbres. Imagine what a comfort it must be to do +your farming in a region where you will never have +to worry about how long it will be before it rains, nor +to tramp about in the mud afterward. As the annual +rainfall in this portion of New Mexico does not exceed +eight inches, there is a generous margin left for sunshine. +Instead of praying for rain, and then cursing +his luck because it doesn’t come, or because it comes +too heavily, the New Mexican farmer strolls over to his +artesian well and throws over an electric switch which +sets the pump agoing. When his fields are sufficiently +irrigated he throws the switch back again. From +the view-point of health it would be hard to improve +upon the climate of the Mimbres valley, or, for that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[9]</span> +matter, of any other portion of New Mexico, its elevation +of four thousand three hundred feet, taken with +the fact that it is in the same latitude as Algeria and +Japan and southernmost California, giving it summers +which are hot without being humid or oppressive and +winters which are never uncomfortably cold.</p> + +<p>Like their neighbours in other parts of the Southwest, +the farmers of southern New Mexico have gone +daft over alfalfa. To me—I might as well admit it +frankly—one patch of alfalfa looks exactly like another, +and they all look extremely uninteresting, but +I suppose that if they were netting me from fifty to +seventy-five dollars an acre a year, as they are their +owners, I would take a more lively interest in them. +I never arrived at a town in New Mexico, dirty, hungry, +and tired, but that there was a group of eager +boosters with a dust-covered automobile awaiting me +at the station.</p> + +<p>“Jump right in,” they would say. “We have an +alfalfa field over here that we want to show you. It’s +only about thirty miles across the desert and we’ll +get you back before the hotel dining-room is closed.”</p> + +<p>They’re as enthusiastic about a patch of alfalfa +in New Mexico as the Esquimaux of Labrador are +about a stranded whale.</p> + +<p>If you have an idea that you would like to be a +hardy frontiersman and wear a broad-brimmed hat +and become the owner of a ranch somewhere in that +region which lies between the Gila and the Pecos, it +were well to disabuse yourself of several erroneous<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>[10]</span> +impressions which seem to prevail about life in the +Southwest. In the first place, you can dress just as +much like the ranchmen whom you have seen depicted +in the magazines as you wish—fleecy <i>chaparejos</i> and +a horsehair hat band and a pair of spurs that jingle +like an approaching four-in-hand when the wearer +walks and all the rest of the paraphernalia—for they +are a tolerant folk, are the New Mexicans, and have +become accustomed to all sorts of queer doings by newcomers. +In many respects they are the politest people +that I know. When I was in New Mexico I carried a +cane, and no one even smiled. But the newcomer +must not imagine that he can gallop madly across the +ranges, at least in the vicinity of the towns, for he is +more likely than not to be hauled up before a justice +of the peace and fined for trespassing on some one’s +alfalfa field or cabbage patch. (Cabbages, though +painfully prosaic, are about the most profitable crop +you can grow in New Mexico; they pay as high as +three hundred and fifty dollars an acre.) And the +intending rancher must make up his mind that he +must begin at the beginning. New Mexico is no place +for the agriculturist <i>de luxe</i> who expects to sit on the +piazza of his ranch-house and watch the hired men do +the work. No, sirree! It is a roll-up-your-sleeves-spit-on-your-hands-and-pitch-in +land where every one works +and is proud of it. And there is always enough to do, +goodness knows! This is virgin soil, remember, and +first of all it has to be cleared of the <i>piñon</i> and mesquite +and chaparral which cover it. This clearing and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span> +grubbing costs on an average, so I was told, about +five dollars an acre, but you get a supply of fire-wood +in return—and there’s nothing that makes a cheerier +blaze on a winter’s night than a hearth heaped with +the roots of mesquite. In other countries you chop +down your fuel with an axe; in New Mexico you dig it +up with a hoe. Then there is the matter of well +digging, which, including the cost of boring, machinery, +and housing, works out at from fifteen to twenty-five +dollars an acre. Since the construction of several +large power-plants, the cost of pumping has been +greatly reduced by the use of electricity. It is quite +possible, of course, for the five or ten acre man to secure +tracts close to town with all the preliminary work +done for him, water being provided from a central +pumping plant and his pro-rata share of the capitalised +cost added to the price of his land, which may +be purchased, like a piano or an encyclopedia, on the +instalment plan. That will be about all, I think, for +facts and figures.</p> + +<p>One of the most interesting things about the settlers +with whom I talked in southern New Mexico is +that, so far as any previous knowledge of agriculture +was concerned, most of them were the veriest amateurs. +One man whom I met had taught school in +Iowa for a quarter of a century, but along in middle +life he decided that there was more money to be made +in teaching corn and cabbages how to shoot than there +was in teaching the same thing to the young idea. +Another was a Methodist clergyman from Kentucky<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span> +who told me that he had never had a real conception +of the hell-fire he preached about until he started in +one scorching July morning to sink an artesian well in +the desert. Still a third successful settler had been a +physician in Oklahoma, while there are any number of +“long-horned Texicans,” as the Texan cattlemen are +called, who have moved over into New Mexico and +become farmers. Scattered through the country are +a few Englishmen; not of the club-lounging, bar-loafing, +remittance-man type so common in Canada +and Australia, but energetic, hard-working youngsters +who are earnestly engaged in building homes for +themselves in a new country and under an adopted +flag. Not all of the Englishmen who have come out to +New Mexico have proven so steady or successful, +however, for a few years ago an English syndicate +purchased a Spanish land grant of some two million +acres in the vicinity of Raton and sent out a complete +equipment of British managers, superintendents, foremen, +butlers, valets, men servants, lodge keepers, gardeners, +coachmen, and other functionaries, not to mention +coaches, tandem carts, a pack of foxhounds, and +other paraphernalia of the sporting life. A man who +witnessed their detrainment at Raton told me that it +was more fun than watching the unloading of the +Greatest Show on Earth. It was a great life those +Englishmen led while it lasted—tea at four every +afternoon, evening clothes for dinner, and then a few +rubbers of bridge—but it ended in the property being +taken over at forced sale by a group of hard-headed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[13]</span> +Hollanders, who harnessed the four-in-hands to ploughs, +used the tandem carts for hauling wood, set the hounds +to churning butter, and are making the big place pay +dividends regularly.</p> + +<p>Some two hundred miles north of Deming as the +mail-train goes is Albuquerque, the metropolis of the +State—if the term metropolis can properly be applied +to a place with not much over twelve thousand inhabitants—set +squarely in the centre of the one hundred +and twenty-two thousand square mile parallelogram +which is New Mexico. Albuquerque is a railway centre +of considerable importance, for from there one can +get through cars north to Denver and Pike’s Peak, south +to the borders of Mexico and its revolutions, and west +to the Golden Gate. One of the things that struck me +most forcibly about Albuquerque—and the observation +is equally applicable to all the rest of New Mexico—is +that instead of having weather they enjoy climate. +It is pretty hard to beat a land where the +moths have a chance to eat holes in your overcoat but +never in your bed blankets. Climate is, in fact, Albuquerque’s +most valuable asset, and she trades on +it for all she is worth—and it is worth to her several +million dollars per annum. It is one of the few cities +that I know of where they want and welcome invalids +and say so frankly. They could not do otherwise with +any consistency, however, for half the leading citizens +of the town arrived there on their backs, clinging +desperately to life, and were lifted out of the car +window on a stretcher. These one-time invalids are<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[14]</span> +to-day as husky, energetic, up-and-doing men as you +will find anywhere. Heretofore Albuquerque has been +much too busy catering to the wants of the thousands +of tourists and invalids who step onto its station platform +each year to pay much attention to agricultural +development; but bordering on the town are several +thousand acres of as fine, healthy desert as you will +find anywhere outside of the Sahara. They are enclosed, +as though by a great garden wall, by the Manzano +ranges, and the gentleman who whirled me +across the billiard-table surface of the desert in his +motor-car told me that the government now has an +irrigation project under consideration which, by damming +the waters of the Rio Grande, will reclaim upward +of four hundred thousand acres of this arid land. +And the great government irrigation projects now in +operation elsewhere in the Southwest have shown +that water can produce as many things from a desert +as the late Monsieur Hermann could from a gentleman’s +hat. So one of these days, I expect, the country +around Albuquerque, from the city limits to the distant +foot-hills, will be as green with alfalfa as Ireland +is with shamrock.</p> + +<p>They have a commercial club in Albuquerque +that <i>is</i> a club. At first I thought I had wandered into +a hotel by mistake, for, with its spacious lobby, its +busy billiard-tables, its handsome rugs and furniture, +and the mahogany desk with the solicitous clerk behind +it, it is about as distantly related to the usual +commercial club as one could well imagine. It gives<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span> +those men in the community who are doing things, +and the others who want to be doing things or ought +to be doing things, a place where they can meet and +discuss, over tall, thin glasses with ice tinkling in them, +the perennial problems of taxes, pavements, irrigation, +crops, fishing, house building, automobiles, and +the climate. I would suggest to the club’s board of +governors, however, that it take steps to remove the +undertaker’s establishment which flanks the entrance. +When one drops into a place to get some facts regarding +the desirability of settling there, it is not exactly +reassuring to be greeted by a pile of coffins.</p> + +<p>Whoever was responsible for the architecture of +the University of New Mexico buildings, which stand +in the outskirts of Albuquerque, deserves a metaphorical +slap of commendation. New Mexico is a young +State and not yet overly rich in this world’s goods, so +that if, with their limited resources, they had attempted +to erect collegiate buildings along the usual hackneyed +lines, with Doric porticoes and gilded cupolas and all +that sort of thing, the result would probably have +looked more like a third-rate normal school than like +a State university. But they did nothing of the sort. +Instead, they erected buildings adapted from the ancient +communal cliff dwellings, constructing them of +the native adobe, which is durable, inexpensive, warm +in winter and in summer cool. All the decorations, +inside and out, are Indian symbols and pictures +painted in dull colors upon the adobe walls. Thus, +at a moderate cost, they have a group of buildings<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[16]</span> +which typify the history of New Mexico and are in +harmony with its strongly characteristic landscape; +which are admirably suited to the climate; and which +are unique among collegiate institutions in that they +are modelled after those great houses in which the +Hopi lived and worked before the dawn of history on +the American continent.</p> + +<p>Santa Fé, the capital of the State, is, to my way +of thinking, the quaintest and most fascinating city +between the oceans. Very old, very sleepy, very picturesque, +it presents more neglected opportunities +than any place I know. I should like to have a chance +to stage-manage Santa Fé, for the scenery, which +ranks among the best efforts of the Great Scene Painter, +is all set and the costumed actors are waiting in the +wings for their cues. Give it the advertising it deserves +and the curtain could be rung up to a capacity +house. Where else within our borders is there a three-hundred-year-old +palace whose red-tiled roof has sheltered +nearly five-score governors—Spanish, Pueblo, +Mexican, and American? (In a back room of the +palace, as you doubtless know, General Lew Wallace, +while governor of New Mexico, wrote “Ben Hur.”) +Where else are Indians in scarlet blankets and beaded +moccasins, their braided hair hanging in front of their +shoulders in long plaits, as common sights in the streets +as are traffic policemen on Broadway? Where else +can you see groups of cow-punchers on sweating, dancing +ponies and sullen-faced Mexicans in high-crowned +hats and gaudy sashes, and dusty prospectors with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span> +their patient pack-mules plodding along behind them, +and diminutive burros trotting to market under burdens +so enormous that nothing can be seen of the +burro but his ears and tail?</p> + +<p>Though at present it is only a sleepy and forgotten +backwater, with the main arteries of commerce +running along their steel channels a score of miles +away, Santa Fé could be made, at a small expenditure +of anything save energy and taste, one of the great +tourist Meccas of America. To begin with, it is the +only place still left in the United States where Buffalo +Bill’s Wild West could merge into the landscape without +causing a stampede. Those who know how much +pains and money were spent by the municipality of +Brussels in restoring a single square of that city to its +original mediæval picturesqueness, whole blocks of +brick and stone having to be torn down to produce the +desired effect, will appreciate the possibilities of Santa +Fé, where the necessary restorations have only to +be made in inexpensive adobe. Desultory efforts are +being made, it is true, to induce the residents to promote +this scheme for a harmonious ensemble by restricting +their architecture to those quaint and simple +designs so characteristic of the country, the Board of +Trade providing an object-lesson in the possibilities of +the humble adobe by erecting a charming little two-room +cottage, with an open fireplace, a veranda, and +a pergola, at a total expense of one hundred dollars, +but every now and then the sought-for architectural +harmony is given a rude jolt by some one who could<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[18]</span> +not resist the attractions of Queen Anne gables or +Clydesdale piazza columns or Colonial red-brick-and-green-blinds.</p> + +<p>Set at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo Range, a +mile above the level of the sea, with one of the kindliest +all-the-year-round climates in the world, and with +an atmosphere which is far more Oriental than American, +Santa Fé has the making of just such another +“show town” as Biskra, in southern Algeria, where +Hichens laid the scene of “The Garden of Allah.” If +its citizens would wake up to its possibilities sufficiently +to advertise it as scores of Californian towns with not +half of its attractions are advertised; if they would +restore the more historically important of the crumbling +adobe buildings to their original condition and +erect their new buildings in the same characteristic +and inexpensive style; if they would keep the streets +alive with the colourful figures of blanketed Indians and +Mexican venders of silver filigree; and if the local +hotel would have the originality to meet the incoming +trains with a four-horse Concord coach, such as is inseparably +associated with the Santa Fé Trail, instead +of a ramshackle bus, they would soon have so many +visitors piling into the New Mexican capital that they +could not take care of them. But they are a <i>dolce far +niente</i> folk, are the people of Santa Fé, and I expect +that they will placidly continue along the same happy, +easy, sleepy path that they have always followed. +And perhaps it is just as well that they should.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus03" style="max-width: 29.6875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus03.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>A dwelling.</p> + <p>A street.</p> + <p class="attr"><i>From a photograph copyright by Jess Nusbaum.</i></p> + <p>Interior of a room.</p> + <p>SANTA FÉ: THE MOST PICTURESQUE CITY BETWEEN THE OCEANS.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>“They call me Santa Fé for short,” the New<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[19]</span> +Mexican capital might answer if one inquired its name, +“but my whole name is La Ciudad Real de la Santa +Fé de San Francisco,” which, translated into our own +tongue, means “The Royal City of the Holy Faith of +Saint Francis.” It is some name—there is no denying +that—but historically the town is quite able to live +up to it. Fifteen years before the anchor of the <i>Mayflower</i> +rumbled down off New England’s rocky coast, +Juan de Oñate, an adventurous and gold-hungry gentleman +of Spain, marching up from Mexico, had raised +over the Indian pueblo which had occupied this site +from time beyond reckoning the banner of Castile. +In 1680 came the great Indian revolt; the Spanish +soldiers and settlers were surprised and massacred +and the brown-robed friars were slain on the altars of +the churches they had built. For twelve years the +Pueblos ruled the land. Then came De Vargas, at +the head of a column of steel-capped and cuirassed +soldiery and, after a ferocious reckoning with the +Indians, retook the city in the name of his Most +Catholic Majesty of Spain. With the overthrow of +Spanish dominion in Mexico, the City of the Holy +Faith became the northernmost outpost of the Mexican +Republic, and Mexican it remained until that August +morning in 1846 when General Kearney and his brass-helmeted +dragoons clattered into its plaza and raised +on the palace flagstaff a flag that was never to come +down. That episode is commemorated by a marble +shaft which rises amid the cottonwoods on the historic +plaza. On its base are carved the words in which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[20]</span> +General Kearney proclaimed the annexation of New +Mexico to the United States:</p> + +<p>“<i>We come as friends to make you a part of the representative +government. In our government all men are +equal. Every man has a right to serve God according +to his conscience and his heart.</i>”</p> + +<p>At the other end of the plaza another monument +marks the end of the famous Santa Fé Trail, over +which, in prairie-schooners and Concord coaches and +on the backs of mules and horses, was borne the commerce +of the prairies. Santa Fé was to the historic trail +of which it was the end what Bagdad is to the caravan +routes across the Persian desert. No sooner would +the lead team of one of these mile-long wagon-trains +top the surrounding hills than word of its approach +would spread through Santa Fé like wildfire. “<i>Los +Americanos! Los Carros! La Caravana!</i>” the inhabitants +would call to one another as they turned their +faces plazaward, for the coming of a wagon-train was +as much of an event as is the arrival of a steamer at a +South Sea island. By the time that the first of the +creaking, white-topped wagons, with its five yoke of +oxen, had come to a halt before the custom-house, +every inhabitant of the town was in the streets. A +necessary preliminary to any trading was for the +chief trader to make a call of ceremony upon the +Spanish governor and, after a laboured interchange of +salutes and compliments, to pay him the enormous +toll of five hundred dollars per wagon imposed by the +Spanish government upon wagon-trains coming from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[21]</span> +the United States. It came out of the pockets of the +Spaniards in the end, however, for the American +traders simply added it to the prices which they +charged for their merchandise, which were high enough +already, goodness knows: linen brought four dollars a +yard, broadcloth twenty-five dollars a yard, and everything +else in proportion. It is no wonder that the +traders of the plains often retired as wealthy men. +Stephen B. Elkins came to New Mexico, where he was +to found his fortune, as bull-whacker in a wagon-train; +one of the traders, Bent by name, came in time to sit +himself in the governor’s palace in Santa Fé; and +Kit Carson’s earlier years were spent in guiding these +commercial expeditions. With the driving of the last +spike in the Union Pacific Railroad, however, the importance +of Santa Fé as a half-way house on the overland +route to California vanished, and since then it +has dwelt, contentedly enough, in its glorious climate +and its memories of the past.</p> + +<p>Up the Cañon of the Santa Fé, over the nine-thousand-foot +Dalton Divide, and down into the +Cañon of the Macho, several hundred gentlemen, in +garments of a somewhat conspicuous pattern provided +by the State, are building what will in time take rank +as one of the world’s great highways. It is to be called +the Scenic Highway, and when it is completed it will +form a section of the projected Camino Real from +Denver to El Paso. It promises to be to the American +Southwest what the Sorrento-Amalfi Drive is to southern +Italy and the famous Corniche Road is to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[22]</span> +south of France. By means of switchbacks—twenty-two +of them in all—it will wind up the precipitous +slopes of the great Dalton Divide, twist and turn +among the snow-capped titans of the Sangre de Cristo +Range, skirt the edges of sheer precipices and dizzy +chasms, drop down through the leafy solitudes of the +Pecos Forest Reserve, and then stretch its length +across the rolling uplands toward Taos, the pyramid-city +of the Pueblos.</p> + +<p>Within a hundred-mile radius of Santa Fé are +three of the most wonderful “sights” in this or any +other country: the hill-city of Acoma, the pyramid-pueblo +of Taos (both of which are described at length +in the succeeding chapter) and the Pajarito National +Park. The Pajarito (in Spanish, remember, the j +takes the sound of h) provides what is unquestionably +the richest field of archæological research in the United +States, the remains of the inconceivably ancient civilisation +with which it is literally strewn, bearing much +the same relation to the history of the New World that +the ruins of Upper Egypt do to that of the Old. To +reach the Pajarito, where the ruins of the cave people +exist, you can ride or drive or motor. As the distance +from Santa Fé is only about forty miles, if you +are willing to get up with the chickens you can make +it in a single day. Comfortable sleeping quarters and +excellent meals can be had at the hospitable ranch-house +of Judge Abbott, or, if you prefer, you can take +along a pair of blankets and some provisions and +sleep high and dry in a cave once occupied by one of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[23]</span> +your very remote ancestors. The very courteous gentlemen +in charge of the American School of Archæology +at Santa Fé are always glad to furnish information +regarding the best way to enter the Pajarito. Twenty +odd miles north of Santa Fé and, debouching quite +unexpectedly upon the flat summit of a mesa, you +look down upon the iridescent ribbon which is the +Rio Grande as it twists and turns between the sheer, +smooth walls of chalky rock which form the sides of +White Rock Cañon. Coming into this great gorge at +right angles are the smaller cañons—chief among them +the one known as the Rito de los Frijoles—in whose +precipitous walls the cave folk hewed their homes. +Some of these smaller cañons are hundreds of feet +above the bed of the Rio Grande, with openings barely +wide enough to let the mountain streams fall through +into the river below.</p> + +<p>You must picture the Rito de los Frijoles as an +immensely long and narrow cañon—so narrow that +Rube Marquard could probably pitch a stone across—with +walls as steep and smooth and twice as high as +those of the Flatiron Building. Then you must picture +the lower face of this rocky wall as being literally +honeycombed by thousands—and when I say thousands +I do not mean hundreds—of windows and doors +and port-holes and apertures and other openings to +caves hollowed from the soft rock of the cliffs. It is a +city of the dead, silent as a mausoleum, mysterious as +the lines of the hand, older than recorded history. +This once populous city consisted of a single street,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[24]</span> +<i>twelve miles long</i>, its cave-dwellings, which were reached +by ladders or by steps cut in the soft tufa, rising above +each other, tier on tier, like some Gargantuan apartment +building. Such portions of the face of the cliff +as are not perforated with doors and windows are embellished +with pictographs, many of them in an extraordinary +state of preservation, which, if the sight-seeing +public only knew it, are as interesting and far +more perplexing than the wall-paintings in the Tombs +of the Kings at Thebes. On the floor of the valley +the archæologists have laid bare the ruins of a circular +community house which, when viewed from above, +bears a striking resemblance to the ancient Greek +theatre at Taormina, while on the Puyé to the north +a communal building of twelve hundred rooms—larger +than the Waldorf-Astoria—has been excavated. +Farther down the Rito is the stone circle or dancing +floor to which the prehistoric young folk descended to +make merry, while their parents kept an eye on them +from their houses in the cliff. (I doubt not that, +when the sun began to sink behind the Jemez, some +skin-clad mother would lean from the window of her +fifth-story flat and shrilly call to her daughter, engrossed +in learning the steps of the prehistoric equivalent +of the tango on the dancing floor below: “A-ya, +come up this minute! You hear me? Your paw’s +just come home with a dinosaur and he wants it +cooked for supper.”) Three miles up the cañon, half +a thousand feet up the face of the cliff, is the arched +ceremonial cave where, secure from prying eyes, this +strange people performed their still stranger rites.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[25]</span> +Thanks to the energy of the American Archæological +Society, this cave has been restored to the same condition +in which it was when prehistoric lodge members +worked their mysterious degrees and made the quaking +initiates ride the goat. Though it is the aim of +the society to year by year restore portions of the Rito +until the whole cañon has returned to its original condition, +such difficulty has been experienced in obtaining +the necessary funds that at the present rate of +progress it will take a century to effect a complete +restoration. Yet our millionaires pour out their wealth +like water to promote the excavation and restoration of +the ruins of alien peoples in other lands. Though carloads +of pottery and utensils have been carted away +to enrich museums and private collections, the surface +of the Pajarito has been scarcely scratched, <i>more than +twenty thousand</i> communal caves and dwellings remaining +to tempt the seekers of lost cities. Where did the +inhabitants of this strange city go—and why? What +swept their civilisation away? When did the age-old +silence fall? These are questions which even the +archæologists do not attempt to answer. All that +they can assert with any degree of certainty is that the +caves which underlie the communal dwellings in the +Pajarito yield ample evidence of having been occupied +by human beings in the days of the lava flow, +when the mastodon and the dinosaur roamed the land +and the world was very, very young.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus04" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus04.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>“The arched ceremonial cave where ... this + strange people performed their still stranger rites.”</p> + <p>“The archæologists have laid bare the ruins of a circular community + house.”</p> + <p>REMAINS OF AN ANCIENT CIVILISATION.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p class="tb">Of the three great elemental industries of New +Mexico—cattle raising, sheep raising, and mining—cattle<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[26]</span> +raising was the first and, more than any other, +gave colour to the country. The early Spanish and +Mexican settlers were cow-men, and the old Sonora +stock, “all horns and backbone,” may still be seen on +some of the interior ranges, though they are now almost +a thing of the past. Then came the great wagon-trains +of Texans, California bound, many of whom, +attracted by the wealth of pasturage, stopped off and +turned their long-horned cattle out on the grass-grown +desert. As Texas and the Middle West became fenced +and civilised, the old-time cattlemen drove their herds +farther and farther toward the setting sun. In those +days there were no sheep to compete for the pasture; +mountains and desert were clothed with grass so rich +and long that they looked as though they were upholstered +in green velvet; there was not a strand of +barbed wire between the Pecos and the Colorado. +New Mexico was indeed the cow-man’s paradise. +Though the range has in many places been ruined by +droughts and overstocking; though a woolly wave has +encroached upon the lands which the cow-man had +regarded as inalienably his own, there are, nevertheless, +close to a million head of cattle within the borders +of the State, by far the greater part of which are Herefords +and Durhams, for the imported stock has increased +the cow-man’s profits out of all proportion to +the initial expense.</p> + +<p>Feeding with equal right and freedom upon the +same public domain are upward of five million head of +sheep, for New Mexico is the home of the wool industry<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[27]</span> +in America. The early Spanish settlers kept large +flocks of the straight-necked, coarse-wooled Mexican +sheep in the country around Santa Fé, and from them +the Navajos and Moquis, those industrious weavers of +blankets and workers in silver, soon stole or bartered +for enough to start a sheep business of their own, it +being said that a third of all the sheep in the State are +now owned by Indians. Unlike cattle, sheep, in cool +weather, can exist without water for a month at a +time; so, when the desert turns from yellow to green +in the spring, they drift out over it in great flocks +which look for all the world like fleecy clouds. Each +flock, which usually consists of several thousand sheep, +is attended by a herder and his “rustler,” who cooks, +packs in supplies, and brings water in casks from the +nearest stream for the use of the herder and his dogs, +the juicy browse providing all the moisture that the +sheep require.</p> + +<p>Owing to its warm, dry weather, New Mexico is +one of the earliest shearing stations in the world, the +work beginning the latter part of January and lasting +until the first of May. In this time enough wool is +clipped to supply a considerable portion of the people +of the United States with suits and blankets. Until +quite recently the shearing of the wool was a long and +tedious task, even the more expert hand shearers seldom +being able to average more than sixty or seventy +fleeces a day. When machine shearing was introduced +into New Mexico a few years age, however, this daily +average was promptly doubled. Sheep-shearers are<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[28]</span> +probably the best-paid and hardest-working class of +men in the world, receiving from seven to eight and a +half cents a head and averaging one hundred and +twenty-five sheep a day. The best of them, however, +shear from two to three hundred sheep in a single day, +the record, I believe, being three hundred and twenty-five. +As the shearing season only lasts through six +months of the year, during which time they must +travel from Texas to Montana, the unionised shearers +demand and receive high wages, some of them making +as much as twenty dollars a day. Yet, in spite of this +and of the grazing fee of six cents a head for all sheep +that feed on forest reserves, it is safe to say that the +wool-growers are the most prosperous men in New +Mexico.</p> + +<p class="tb">The social fabric of New Mexico is a curious blending +of Mexicans, Indians, and Americans. Of these +elements the Mexicans are by far the most numerous, +their customs, costumes, and language lending a decidedly +Spanish flavour to the country. Living for the +most part in scattered settlements along the mountain +streams or in their own quarters in the towns, they +enjoy a lazy, irresponsible, and not uncomfortable existence +in return for their humble labour, not differing +materially, either in their mode of life, manners, or +morals, from their kinsmen below the Rio Grande. +Shiftless, indolent, indifferently honest, the peons of +New Mexico, like the South African Kaffirs and the +Egyptian fellaheen, are nevertheless invaluable to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[29]</span> +welfare of the State, for they perform practically all +the labour on the ranches, mines, and railways. Politically +they are an element to be reckoned with, about +seventy-five per cent of the population of Santa Fé +being Mexicans, while sixty per cent of the State +Legislature is from the same race. As a result of this +Latin preponderance in the population, practically all +Americans in New Mexico are compelled to have at +least a working knowledge of Spanish, which is really +the <i>lingua franca</i> of the country, it being by no means +unusual to find one who speaks it better than the Mexicans +themselves. Owing to the great influx of settlers +during the last few years, the Mexican proportion of +the population has been greatly reduced, as is confirmed +by the increasing use of the English language +and of English newspapers.</p> + +<p>One of the strangest religious sects in the world—the +Penitentes—are recruited from the Mexican element +of the population. Although this dread form of +religious fanaticism has its centre in the region about +San Mateo, it permeates peon life in every quarter of +the State. For the Penitente is not an Indian; he is +a Mexican. The Indians of the Pueblos repudiate +Penitente practices. Neither is the Penitente a Catholic, +for the Church has fought his terrible rites tooth +and nail, though thus far it has fought them in vain. +He is really a grim survivor of those secret orders +whose fanaticism and religious excesses became a byword +even in the calloused Europe of the Middle Ages. +The sect is divided into two branches: the Brothers of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[30]</span> +Light—<i>La Luz</i>—and the Brothers of Darkness—<i>Las +Tinieblas</i>. Though they hold secret meetings with +more or less regularity throughout the year in their +lodges or <i>morados</i>, they are really active only during the +forty days of Lent. During that period both men and +women flog their naked backs with scourges of aloe +fibre, wind their limbs with wire or rope so tightly as to +stop the circulation, lie for hours at a time on beds of +cactus, make pilgrimages to mountain shrines with their +unstockinged feet in shoes filled with jagged flints, +stagger torturing miles across the sun-baked desert +under the weight of enormous crosses, while on Good +Friday this carnival of torture culminates in one of +their number, chosen by lot, actually being crucified. +It has been a number of years, however, since a Penitente +has died on the cross, for, since the law came to +New Mexico, they have found it wiser to fasten their +willing victim to the cross with rope instead of nails. +Though sporadic efforts have been made to break up +the sect, they have thus far been unsuccessful, as it is +no secret that many men high in the political life of +New Mexico bear on their backs the tattooed cross +which is the symbol of the order.</p> + +<p>Though the growth of the white population has +heretofore been slow, it has begun to increase by +leaps and bounds with the development of irrigation. +Though New Mexico now contains representatives +from every State in the Union and from pretty much +every country in the world, the average run of society +exhibits a tendency toward high-crowned hats that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[31]</span> +shows the dominating influence of Texas. They are, I +think, the most hospitable folk that I have ever met; +they are tolerant of other people’s opinions; have a +tendency to ride rather than walk; are ready to fight +at the drop of the hat; hate to count their money; lie +only for the sake of entertainment; like a big proposition; +and know how to handle it—there you have them, +the gentlemen of New Mexico. But don’t go out to +New Mexico, my Eastern friends, with the idea that +you can butt into society with the aid of a good cigar—because +you can’t. They are a free-born, free-living, +free-speaking folk, are the dwellers out in the +back country where the desert meets the mountains +and the mountains meet the sky, and they don’t give +a whoop-and-hurrah whether you come or stay away.</p> + +<p class="tb">Such, in brief, bold outline, is the New Mexico +of to-day. I have tried to paint you a picture, as well +as I know how, of the progress, potentialities, and prospects +of this, the youngest but one of the sisterhood +of States. Though New Mexico, as a Territory, was +willing enough to be a synonym for Indian villages and +snake-dances and cavorting cowboys, the State of New +Mexico stands for something very different indeed. +Though it welcomes the tourists who come-look-see-spend-go, +it prefers the settlers who are prepared to +stay and make it their home. Unlike its sister State of +Arizona, New Mexico does not suffer from that greatest +of privations—lack of water—for the mountain-flood +waters that now go to waste would store great reservoirs,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[32]</span> +there is the flow of numerous streams and river +systems, and below the surface are artesian belts of +water waiting only to be tapped by the farmer’s well. +That the soil, once watered, is very fertile is best +proved by the orchards, gardens, and meadows which +cover the valleys of the Mimbres and the Pecos. Ten +years ago the cattlemen of New Mexico used to say +that it took “sixty acres to raise a steer”; to-day, +thanks to irrigation, a single acre of alfalfa does the +business. In gold, silver, coal, and copper the State is +very rich—the largest copper mine in the world is at +Silver City—while its turquoise deposits surpass those +of Persia. And the people are as big-hearted and +broad-minded and open-handed as you will find anywhere +on earth. Taking it by and large, therefore, a +man with some experience, a little capital, plenty of +energy and ambition, and an intimate acquaintance +with hard work should go a long way in New Mexico. +He would find down there a big, new, unfenced, up-and-doing +country and a set of sun-bronzed, iron-hard, +self-reliant men of whom any country might be proud. +These men are the modern <i>conquistadores</i>, for they +have conquered sun and sand. To-day they are only +commonplace farmers, but, when history has granted +them the justice of perspective, they will be called the +Pioneers.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[33]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="II">II<br> +<span class="smaller">THE SKYLANDERS</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[34]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Here still a lofty rock remains,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">On which the curious eye may trace</div> + <div class="verse indent0">(Now wasted half by wearing rains)</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The fancies of a ruder race.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="center">...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And long shall timorous Fancy see</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The painted chief, and pointed spear,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And Reason’s self shall bow the knee</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To shadows and delusions here.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[35]</span></p> + +<h3>II<br> +<span class="smaller">THE SKYLANDERS</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>Six minutes after midnight the mail-train came +thundering out of nowhere. With hissing steam +and brakes asqueal it paused just long enough for me to +drop off and then roared on its transcontinental way +again to the accompaniment of a droning chant which +quickly dropped into diminuendo, its scarlet tail +lamps disappearing at forty miles an hour, leaving me +abandoned in the utter darkness of the desert. The +Casa Alvarado at Albuquerque, with its red-shaded +candles and snowy napery, where I had dined only four +hours before, seemed very far away. Some one flashed +a lantern in my face and a voice behind it inquired:</p> + +<p>“Are you the gent that’s goin’ to Acoma?”</p> + +<p>“I am,” said I, “if I can get there.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I reckon you’ll get there all right, seein’ as +how the trader at Laguna’s sent a rig over for you. +Bob made a little money on a bunch o’ cattle a while +back and he’s been pretty damned independent ever +since ’bout takin’ folks over to Acoma. Says it’s too +hard on his horses. But when Bob says he’ll do a +thing he does it. Hi, Charlie!” he shouted, “you over +there?”</p> + +<p>A guttural affirmative came out of the blackness. +As the loquacious station agent made no offer to light<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[36]</span> +my footsteps, I cautiously picked my way across the +rails, slid down a steep embankment into a ditch, +scrambled out of it, and descried before me the vague +outlines of a ramshackle vehicle drawn by a pair of +wiry, unkempt ponies.</p> + +<p>“How?” grunted the driver, who, as my eyes +became accustomed to the darkness, I saw was an +Indian, his hair, plaited in two long braids with strands +of vivid flannel interwoven, hanging in front of his +shoulders, schoolgirl fashion. I clambered in, the +Indian spoke to his ponies, and, breaking into a lope, +they swung off across the desert, the wretched vehicle +lurching and pitching behind them.</p> + +<p>It is an unforgettable experience, a ride across the +New Mexican desert in the night-time. The sky is +like purple velvet and the stars seem very near. The +silence is not the peaceful stillness that comes with +nightfall in settled regions, but the mysterious, uncanny +hush that hangs over other ancient and deserted +lands—Upper Egypt, for example, and Turkestan. +Our way was lined with dim, fantastic shapes whose +phantom arms seemed to warn or beckon or implore, +but which, in the prosaic light of morning, resolved +themselves into clumps of piñon, and mesquite, and +prickly-pear. The ponies shied suddenly at a stirring +in the underbrush—probably a rattlesnake disturbed—and +in the distance a coyote gave dismal tongue. +Slipping and sliding down a declivity so abrupt that +the axles were level with the ponies’ backs, we rattled +across the stone-strewn bed of an <i>arroyo seco</i>, as they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[37]</span> +term a dried-up watercourse in that half-Spanish region, +and clattered into a settlement whose squat, +flat-roofed hovels of adobe, unlighted and silent as +the houses of Pompeii, showed dimly on either hand.</p> + +<p>“Laguna?” I inquired.</p> + +<p>“Uh-huh,” responded my taciturn companion, +pulling up his ponies sharply before a dwelling considerably +more pretentious than the rest. “Trader’s,” +he added laconically.</p> + +<p>As, stiff, chilled, and weary, I scrambled down, +the door swung open to reveal a lean figure in shirt and +trousers, silhouetted by the light from a guttering +candle.</p> + +<p>“I’m the trader,” said he. “I reckon you’re the +party we’ve been expectin’. We ain’t got much accommodation +to offer you, but, such as it is, you’re +welcome to it. I’m afeard my youngsters’ll keep you +awake, though. I’ve got six on ’em an’ they’ve all +got the whoopin’-cough, so me an’ my old woman +hain’t had a chanct to shet our eyes for the last week.”</p> + +<p>It wasn’t the cough-harassed children who kept +me wide-eyed and tossing through the night, however. +It was Sheridan, I think, who remarked that had the +fleas of a certain bed upon which he once slept been +unanimous, they could easily have pushed him out. +Had the tiny hordes which were in possession of my +couch had an insect Kitchener to organise and lead +them, I should certainly have had to spend the night +upon the floor. I learned afterward that the Indians +of the neighbouring pueblos have a name for Laguna<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[38]</span> +which, in the white man’s tongue, means “Scratch-town.”</p> + +<p>From Laguna to Acoma is a four hours’ drive +across the desert. It is very rough and more than +once I feared that I should require the services of an +osteopath to rejoint my vertebræ. And it is inconceivably +dusty, the ponies kicking up clouds of fine, +shifting sand which fills your eyes and nose and ears +and sifts through your garments until you feel as +though you were covered with sandpaper instead of +skin. The sun beats down until the arid expanse of +the desert is as hot as the whitewashed base of a railway-station +stove at white heat. Everything considered, +it is not the sort of a drive that one would choose +for pleasure, but it is a very wonderful drive nevertheless, +for the New Mexican desert is a kaleidoscope +of colour. It is a land of black rocks and orange sand, +flecked with discouraged, hopeless-looking clumps of +sage-green vegetation; of violet, and amethyst, and +purple mountain ranges; and overhead a sky of the +brightest blue you will find anywhere outside a wash-tub. +The cloud effects are the most beautiful I have +ever seen, great masses of fleecy cirrus drifting lazily, +like flocks of new-washed sheep, across the turquoise +sky. Everywhere the colours are splashed on with a +barbaric, almost a theatrical, touch. It is a regular +back-drop of a country; its scenery looks as though it +should have been painted on a curtain. When a party +of Indians, with scarlet handkerchiefs twisted about +their heads pirate fashion, lope by astride of spotted<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>[39]</span> +ponies, the illusion is complete. “You’re not really +in New Mexico, you know,” you say to yourself. +“This is much too theatrical to be real. You’re sitting +in an orchestra chair watching a play, that’s what +you’re doing.”</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus05" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus05.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"> <p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by A. C. Vroman.</i></p> + <p>THE LAND OF THE TURQUOISE SKY.</p> + <p>“Great masses of fleecy cirrus drifting lazily, like flocks of new-washed + sheep, across the turquoise sky.”</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Swinging sharply around the shoulder of a sand-dune, +a mesa—a table-land of rock—reared itself out +of the plain as unexpectedly as a slap in the face. The +driver pointed unconcernedly with his whip. “<i>La +Mesa Encantada</i>,” he grunted. The Enchanted Mesa! +Was there ever a name which so reeked with mystery +and romance? Picture, if you can, a bandbox-shaped +rock, almost flat on top and covering as much ground +as a good-sized city square, higher than the Times +Building in New York and with sides almost as perpendicular, +set down in the middle of the flattest, +yellowest desert the imagination can conceive. Seen +from the distance, it suggests the stump of an inconceivably +gigantic tree—a tree a thousand feet in diameter +and sawed squarely off four hundred and thirty +feet above the ground. On one side it is as sheer and +smooth as that face of Gibraltar which looks Spainward, +and when the evening sun strikes it slantingly +it turns the monstrous mass of sandstone into a pile +of rosy coral. It is one of the most impressive things +that I have ever seen. Solitary, silent, mysterious, +redolent of legend and superstition, older than Time +itself, it suggests, without in any way resembling, +those Colossi of Memnon which stare out across the +desert from ruined Thebes.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>[40]</span></p> + +<p>Those disputatious cousins Science and Tradition +seem to have agreed for once that the original +Acoma stood on the top of the <i>Mesa Encantada</i>, or +Katzimo, as the Indians call it, in the days when the +world was very young. Ever since Katzimo first attracted +scientific attention the archælogists have quarrelled +like cats and dogs over this question of whether +it had ever been inhabited, just as they are quarrelling +in Palestine as to the site of Calvary. A few years ago +the Smithsonian Institution, desirous of settling the +controversy for good and all, despatched to New Mexico +a gentleman of an inquiring turn of mind, who +succeeded in performing the supposedly impossible feat +of scaling the sheer cliffs which, from time beyond +reckoning, have guarded the secret of the mesa. On +the plateau at the top he found fragments of earthenware +utensils, which would seem to prove quite conclusively +that it had been inhabited in long-past ages +by human beings, thus supporting the traditions which +prevail among the Indians regarding this mighty +monolith. Whether the Enchanted Mesa has ever +been inhabited I do not know; no one knows; and, to +tell the truth, it does not greatly matter. According +to the legend current among the Pueblos, this island +in the air was originally accessible by means of a huge, +detached fragment leaning against it at such an angle +that it formed a precarious and perilous ladder to the +top. Its difficulty of access was more than compensated +for, however, by its security from the attacks of +enemies, whether on two feet or four, for Katzimo is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>[41]</span> +supposed to have echoed to human voices in those dim +and distant days when the mastodon and the dinosaur +roamed the land. The Indian legend has it that, while +the men of the tribe were absent on a hunting expedition +and the able-bodied women were hoeing corn in +the fields below, some cataclysm of nature—most +probably an earthquake—jarred loose the ladder rock +and toppled it over into the plain, leaving the town on +the summit as completely cut off from human help as +though it were on another planet. The women and +children thus isolated perished miserably from starvation, +and their spirits, so the Indians will assure you, +still haunt the summit of Katzimo. On any windy +night you can hear them for yourself, moaning and +wailing for the help that never came. That is why it +were easier to persuade a Mississippi darky to spend +a night in a graveyard than to induce an Indian to +linger in the vicinity of the Enchanted Mesa after dark.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus06" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus06.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by A. C. Vroman.</i></p> + <p>“A bandbox-shaped rock, higher than the Times Building in New York and with + sides almost as perpendicular.”</p> + <p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by A. C. Vroman.</i></p> + <p>“The mesa on which the modern Acoma is perched might be likened to a + gigantic billiard-table three hundred and fifty-seven feet high.”</p> + <p>ACOMA: SUPPOSED ANCIENT SITE AND PRESENT SITE.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>The survivors of the tribe chose as the site of +their new town the top of a somewhat lower mesa, +three miles or so from their former home. If the Enchanted +Mesa resembles a titanic bandbox, the mesa +on which the modern Acoma is perched might be +likened to a gigantic billiard-table, three hundred and +fifty-seven feet high, seventy acres in area upon its +level top, and supported by precipices which are not +merely perpendicular but in many cases actually overhanging. +It presents one of the most striking examples +of erosion in the world, does Acoma, the sand +which has been hurled against it by the wind of ages,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>[42]</span> +as by a natural sand-blast, having cut the soft rock +into forms more fantastic than were ever conjured up +by Little Nemo in his dreams. Battlements, turrets, +arches, minarets, and gargoyles of weather-worn, +tawny-tinted rock rise on every hand. There are +two routes to the summit and both of them require +leathern lungs and seasoned sinews. One, called, if I +remember rightly, the “Padre’s Path,” is little more +than a crevasse in the solid rock, its ascent necessitating +the vigorous use of knees and elbows as well as +hands and feet, it being about as easy to negotiate as +the outside of the Statue of Liberty. The other path, +which is considerably longer, suggests the stone-paved +ascent to some stronghold of the Middle Ages—and, +when you come to think about it, that is precisely +what it is—the resemblance being heightened by the +massive battlements of eroded rock between which it +winds and the strings of patient donkeys which plod +up it, faggot-laden. Though of fair width near the +bottom, it gradually narrows as it zigzags upward, +finally becoming so slim that there is not room between +the face of the cliff and the brink of the precipice for +two donkeys to pass. It was at this inauspicious spot +that I first encountered one of these dwellers in the sky—“skylanders” +they might fittingly be called. He +was a low-browed, sullen-looking fellow, with a skin the +colour of a well-worn saddle and an expression about as +pleasant as a rainy morning. His shock of coarse +black hair had been bobbed just below the ears and +was kept back from his eyes by the inevitable <i>banda</i>;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[43]</span> +his legs were encased in <i>chaparejos</i> of fringed buckskin, +and his shirt tails fluttered free. He came jogging +down the perilous pathway astride of a calico +donkey and, with the background of rocks and sand, +cut a very striking and savage figure indeed. “He’ll +make a perfectly bully picture,” I said to myself, and, +suiting the action to the thought, I unlimbered my +camera and ambushed myself behind a projecting +shoulder of rock. As he swung into the range of my +lens I snapped the shutter. It was speeded up to a +hundredth of a second, but in much less time than that +he had dismounted and was coming for me with a +club. I have read somewhere that the Acomas are a +mild-mannered, inoffensive folk. Well, perhaps. Still, +I was glad that I had in my jacket pocket the largest-sized +automatic used by a civilised people, and I was +still gladder when Man-That-Wouldn’t-Have-His-Picture-Taken, +glimpsing its ominous outline through the +cloth, moved sullenly away, shaking his stick and +muttering sentiments which needed no translation. +He was an artist in the way he laid on his curses, was +that Indian. An army mule-skinner would have taken +off his hat to him in admiration.</p> + +<p>Of all the nineteen pueblos of New Mexico, Acoma +is the most interesting by far. Indeed, I do not +think that I am permitting my enthusiasm to get the +better of my discrimination when I class it with Urga, +Khiva, Mecca, the troglodyte town of Medenine in +southern Tunisia, and Timbuktu as one of the half +dozen most interesting semicivilised places in existence.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>[44]</span> +Where else in all the world can you find a +town hanging, as it were, between land and sky and +reached by some of the dizziest trails ever trod by +human feet; a town of many-floored but doorless +dwellings, which have ladders instead of stairs and +whose windows are of gypsum instead of glass; a +town where the women build and own the houses and +the men weave the women’s gowns; where the husbands +take the names of their wives and the children +the names of their mothers; where the belongings of +a dead man are destroyed upon his grave and the +ghosts are distracted so that his spirit may have time +to escape; a town where religious mysteries, as incredible +as those of voodooism and as jealously guarded as +those of Lhasa, are performed in an underground +chamber as impossible of access by the uninitiated as +the Kaaba? Where else shall you find such a place as +that, I ask you? Tell me that.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus07" style="max-width: 29.6875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus07.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by A. C. Vroman.</i></p> + <p>“The massive battlements of eroded rock between which it winds ... + suggest the stone-paved ascent to some stronghold of the Middle Ages.”</p> + <p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by A. C. Vroman.</i></p> + <p>“You gain access to the first floor of an Acoma dwelling precisely as + you gain access to the hold of a ship.”</p> + <p>ACOMA AS IT IS TO-DAY.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Acoma has the unassailable distinction of being +the oldest continuously inhabited town within our +borders, though how old the archæologists have been +unable to conjecture, much less positively say. Certain +it is that it was ancient when the Great Navigator +set foot on the beach of San Salvador; that it was +hoary with antiquity when the Great Captain and his +mail-clad men-at-arms came marching up from Vera +Cruz for the taking of Mexico. One needs to be very +close under its beetling cliffs before any sign of the +village can be detected, as the houses are of the same +color and, indeed of the same material as the rock<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>[45]</span> +upon which they stand and so far above the plain +that, as old Casteñeda, the chronicler of Coronado’s +expedition in 1540, records, “it was a very good musket +that could throw a ball as high.” The lofty situation +of the town and the effect of bleakness produced by +the entire absence of vegetation and by the cold, grey +rock of which it is built reminded me of San Marino, +that mountain-top capital of a tiny republic in the +Apennines, while in the startling abruptness with +which the mesa rears itself out of the desert there is a +suggestion of those strange monasteries of Metéora, +perched on their rocky columns above the Thessalian +plain. The village proper consists of three parallel +blocks of houses running east and west perhaps a +thousand feet and skyward forty. They are, in fact, +primeval apartment-houses, each block being partitioned +by cross-walls into separate little homes which +have no interior communication with each other. +Each of these blocks is three stories high, with a sheer +wall behind but terraced in front, so that it looks like +a flight of three gigantic steps. (At the sister pueblo +of Taos, a hundred miles or so to the northward, this +novel architectural scheme has been carried even +further by building the houses six and even seven +stories high and terracing them on all four sides so +that they form a pyramid.) The second story is set +well back on the roof of the first, thus giving it a +broad, uncovered terrace across its entire front, and +the third story is similarly placed upon the second. +In Acoma, which has about seven hundred people,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>[46]</span> +there are scarcely a dozen doors on the ground; and +these indicate the abodes of those progressive citizens +who, not satisfied with what was good enough for +their fathers, must be for ever experimenting with some +new-fangled device. Barring these cases of recent +innovation, there are no doors to the lower floor, the +only access to a house being by a rude ladder to the +first terrace. If you are making a call on the occupants +of the first story, you wriggle through a tiny +trap-door in the floor of the second and literally drop +in upon them—so literally that your hosts see your +feet before they see your face. It is a novel experience +... yes, indeed. You gain access to the first +floor of an Acoma dwelling precisely as you gain access +to the hold of a ship—by climbing a ladder to the +deck and then descending through a hatchway. If you +wish to leave your visiting-card at the third-floor +apartment or if you have a hankering to see the view +from the topmost roof, you can ascend quite easily by +means of queer little steps notched in the division +walls. The ground floor is always occupied by the +senior members of the family, the second terrace is +allotted to the daughter first married, and the upper +flat goes to the daughter who gets a husband next. +If there are other married daughters they must seek +apartments elsewhere or live with grandpa and grandma +in the basement.</p> + +<p>Most writers about Acoma seem to be particularly +impressed with the cleanliness of its inhabitants and +the neatness of their homes. I don’t like to shatter<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>[47]</span> +any illusions, but it struck me that the much-vaunted +neatness of these people consisted mainly in covering +their beds with scarlet blankets and whitewashing +their walls. I have heard visitors exclaim enthusiastically +as they peered in through an open doorway: +“Why, I wouldn’t mind sleeping there at all.” They +are perfectly welcome to so far as I am concerned. As +for me, I much prefer a warm blanket and the open +mesa. All of the Pueblo Indians are as ignorant of +the elements of sanitation as a Congo black. If you +doubt it, visit one of these sky cities on a scorching +summer’s day when there is no wind blowing. As +an old frontiersman in Albuquerque confided to me: +“Say, friend, I’d ruther have a skunk hangin’ round +my tent than to have to spend a night to leeward o’ +one of them there Hopi towns.”</p> + +<p>Civilisation has evidently found the rocky path +to Acoma too steep to climb, for when I was there not +a soul in the place spoke a word of English. There +was a daughter of the village who had been educated +at Carlisle—Marie was her name, I think—but she +was away on a visit. Perhaps she couldn’t stand the +loneliness of being the only civilised person in the +community. That is one of the deplorable features +incident to our system of Indian education. A youth +is sent to Carlisle or Hampton or Riverside, as the +case may be, and after being broken to the white man’s +ways is sent back to his own people on the theory +that, by force of example, he will alter their mode of +living. But he rarely does anything of the sort, for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>[48]</span> +his fellow tribesmen either resent his attempts to introduce +innovations or treat him with the same contemptuous +tolerance with which the hidebound residents +of a country village regard the youth who is +“college l’arned.” So, after a time, becoming discouraged +by the futility of attempting to teach his +people something that they don’t want to know, he +either goes out into the world to earn his own livelihood +as best he may or else he again leaves his shirt +tails outside his breeches, daubs his face with paint +on dance days, and, forgetting how to use a fork and +napkin, goes back to the manners and usages of his +fathers. But you mustn’t get the idea that Acoma is +wholly uncivilised, for it isn’t. One household has an +iron bed with large brass knobs, another boasts a +rocking-chair, and a third possesses a sewing-machine. +But the most convincing proof that these untutored +children of the sky possess a strain of culture is in the +fact that Acoma can boast no phonograph to greet the +visitor with the raucous strains of “Every Little Movement” +and “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.”</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus08" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus08.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"> <p class="attr"><i>From a photograph + copyright by Fred Harvey.</i></p> + <p>ACOMA HUNTER HOME FROM THE HUNT.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>In many respects the most remarkable feature of +Acoma is its immense adobe church, built upward of +three centuries ago. It is remarkable because every +stick and every adobe brick in it was carried up the +heart-breaking, back-breaking trails from the plains +three hundred feet below on the backs of patient +Indians. There are timbers in that church a foot and +a half square and forty feet long, brought by human +muscle alone from the mountains a long day’s march<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>[49]</span> +away. And it is no tiny chapel, remember, but a +building of enormous proportions, with walls ten feet +thick and sixty feet high, and covering more ground +than any modern church in America. As a monument +of patient toil it is hardly less wonderful than the +Pyramids; it was as long in building as the Children +of Israel were in getting out of the wilderness. Above +its gaudy altar hangs a royal gift, the town’s most +treasured possession—a painting of San José, presented +to Acoma two centuries and a half ago by his +Most Catholic Majesty Charles the Second of Aragon +and Castile. Faded and time-dimmed though it is, +that picture once nearly caused an Indian war. Some +years ago the neighbouring pueblo of Laguna, suffering +from drought and cattle sickness and all manner of +disasters, looked on the prosperity of Acoma and +ascribed it to the patronage of the painted San José. +So Laguna, believing that if the saint could bring prosperity +to one pueblo, he could bring it to another, +asked Acoma for the loan of the picture, and, after a +tribal council, the request was granted. Their confidence +in the saint was justified, for no sooner had +the picture been transferred to the walls of Laguna’s +bell-hung, mud-walled mission church than the rains +came and the crops sprouted, and the cattle throve, +and the tourists, leaning from their car windows, +bought more pottery and blankets than they ever had +before. After a time, however, Acoma gently intimated +to Laguna that a loan was not a gift and asked +for the return of the picture. Whereupon the Lagunas<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>[50]</span> +retorted that if possession was nine points of the law +in the white man’s country, in the Indian country it +was ten points—and then some, and that if the Acomas +wanted the picture they could come and take it—if +they could. For several weeks there was much sharpening +of knives and cleaning of Winchesters in both +pueblos, and at night the high mesa of Acoma resounded +to those same war chants which preceded the +massacre of Zaldivar and his Spaniards. But the +saner counsels of the Indian agent prevailed, for these +hill-folk are at heart a peaceable people, and they +were induced to submit the dispute over the picture +to the arbitrament of the white man’s courts. Perhaps +it was well for the peace of central New Mexico +that Judge Kirby Benedict, who heard the case, decided +in favour of the plaintiffs and ordered the picture +restored to Acoma forthwith. But when the messengers +sent from Acoma to bring the sacred treasure +back arrived at Laguna they found that the picture +had mysteriously disappeared. But while riding dejectedly +back to Acoma to break the news of the +calamity they discovered under a mesquite bush, +midway between the two pueblos—God be praised!—the +missing picture. The Acomas instantly recognised, +of course, that San José, released from bondage, had +started homeward of his own volition and had doubtless +sought shelter in the shade of the mesquite bush +until the heat of the day had passed. He hangs once +more on the wall of the ancient church, just where he +did when he came, all fresh and shiny, from Madrid,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51"></a>[51]</span> +and every morning the hill people file in and cross +themselves before him and mutter a little prayer.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus09" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus09.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><table><tr> + <td class="td3"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by A. C. Vroman.</i></p> + <p>The pottery painter.</p></td> + <td class="td3"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by A. C. Vroman.</i></p> + <p>The blanket weaver.</p></td> + <td class="td3"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by A. C. Vroman.</i></p> + <p>The turquoise driller.</p></td> + </tr></table> + <p>ACOMA ARTISANS.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>In front of the church is the village graveyard, a +depression in the rock forty feet deep and two hundred +square, filled with earth brought on the backs of +women from the far plain. It took them nearly forty +years to make it. Is it any wonder that the patient, +moccasined feet of centuries have sunk their imprint +in the rock six inches deep? And the work was done +by women! Imagine the New York suffragettes carrying +enough dirt in sacks to the top of the Metropolitan +Building to make a graveyard there. The bones +lie thick on the surface soil, now literally a bank of +human limestone. Dig down into that ghastly stratum +and you would doubtless find among the myriads of +bleached and grinning skulls some that had been cleft +by sword-blade or pierced by bullet—grim reminders +of that day, now three centuries agone, when Oñate’s +men-at-arms carried Acoma by storm and put three +thousand of its defenders to the sword, as was the +Spanish custom. A funeral in Acoma’s sun-seared +graveyard is worth journeying a long, long way to see. +When the still form, wrapped in its costliest blanket, +has been lowered into its narrow resting-place among +the skeletons of its fathers; when upon the earth above +it has been broken the symbolic jar of water; when the +relatives have brought forth pottery and weapons and +clothing to be broken and rent upon the grave that they +may go with their departed owner; when all these +weird rites have been performed the wailing mourners<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52"></a>[52]</span> +file away to those desolate houses where the shamans +are blinding the eyes of the ghosts that they may not +find the trail of the soul which has set out on its four +days’ journey to the Land That Lies Beyond the +Ranges. It is a strange business.</p> + +<p>American dominion has not yet resulted in destroying +the picturesque costumes of the Acomas, and +I hope to Heaven that it never will. Civilisation has +enough to answer for in substituting the unlovely garments +of Europe for the beautiful and becoming costumes +of China and Japan. In Acoma the people +always look as though they were dressed up for visitors, +although, as a matter of fact, they are nothing +of the sort. Like all barbarians, they are fond of +colours. The tendencies of a man may be pretty accurately +gauged by the manner in which he wears his +shirt. If he lets it hang outside his trousers he is a +dyed-in-the-wool conservative, and you can make up +your mind that he has no glass in <i>his</i> windows or doors +to <i>his</i> ground floor. But if he tucks it into his trousers, +white-man fashion, it may be taken as a sign that +he is a progressive, an aboriginal Bull Mooser, as it +were, in which case he usually goes a step further by +hiding the picturesque <i>banda</i>, with its suggestion of the +buccaneers, beneath a sombrero several sizes too large. +On dance days, however, liberals and conservatives +alike discard their shirts and trousers for the primitive +breech-clouts of their savage ancestors, streak and +ring their lithe, brown bodies with red and yellow pigments, +surmount their none too lovely features with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>[53]</span> +fantastic head-dresses, and transform themselves into +very ferocious and repellent figures indeed. A Hopi +in his dancing dress looks like the creature of a bad +dream.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus10" style="max-width: 29.6875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus10.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by A. C. Vroman.</i></p> + <p>“DANCE MAD!”</p> + <p>“On dance days they streak and ring their lithe bronze bodies with + red and yellow pigments, surmount their none too lovely features with + fantastic head-dresses, and transform themselves into the creatures of a + bad dream.”</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>The women wear a peculiar sort of tunic, somewhat +resembling that worn by their cousins on the +Isthmus of Tehuantepec, which exposes the neck and +one round, bronze shoulder. The garment is well +chosen, for the Acomas have the finest necks and busts +of any women that I know. This is due, no doubt, +to the fact that they carry all the water used in their +houses from the communal reservoir in <i>tinajas</i> balanced +on their heads, frequently up a ladder and two +steep flights of stairs, thus unconsciously developing a +litheness of figure and a mould of form that would +arouse the envy of Gaby des Lys. Over their shoulders +is drawn a little shawl, generally of vivid scarlet. Then +there is more scarlet in the kilts which reach from +the waist to the knees and a contrast in the black +stockings which come to the ankle, leaving bare their +dainty feet—the smallest and prettiest women’s feet +that I have ever seen. The feet of all these hill-folk +are abnormally small, the result, doubtless, of the constant +clutching of the uneven rock. The picturesqueness +of the women’s costumes is enormously increased +by the quantities of turquoise-studded silver jewellery +which they affect, which tinkles musically when they +walk. This jewellery, which they hammer out of +Mexican <i>pesos</i>, obtaining the turquoises from the rich +and highly profitable local mines, forms one of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>[54]</span> +Acomas’ chief sources of revenue, for they sell great +quantities of it to the agents of the curiosity dealers +along the railway and these resell it to the tourists on +the transcontinental trains at a profit of many hundred +per cent. They make several other forms of decorative +wares: blankets, for example—though the Hopi +blankets are not to be spoken of in the same breath +with the beautiful products of the looms of their unfriendly +Navajo neighbours—and pottery jars which +they patiently decorate in fine grey-black designs and +burn over dung-fed fires. Everything considered, +their work is probably the most artistic done by any +Indians in America to-day.</p> + +<p>But to return to the highway of narrative from +which I find that I have inadvertently wandered. +When a girl is old enough to get married, which is +usually about the time that she reaches her twelfth +birthday, she is expected to arrange her lustrous blue-black +hair in two large whorls, like doughnuts, one on +each side of her dainty head. The whorl is supposed +to typify the squash blossom, which is the Hopi emblem +of maidenhood. To arrange this complicated +coiffure is a long day’s task, and after it is once made +the owner puts herself to acute discomfort by sleeping +on a wooden head-rest, so as not to disarrange it. +When a girl marries, which she generally does very early +in her teens, she must no longer wear the <i>nash-mi</i>, as +the whorls are called. Instead, her hair is done up in +two pendent rolls, symbolical of the ripened squash, +which is the Hopi emblem of fruitfulness. And after<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>[55]</span> +you have seen the litters of fat, brown babies which +gambol like puppies before every door, and the rows of +roguish children’s faces which peer down at you from +every sun-scorched housetop, you begin to think that +there must be some virtue in this symbolical hair-dressing +after all.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus11" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus11.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><table><tr> + <td class="td2"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by A. C. Vroman.</i></p> + <p>“When a girl is old enough to get married she is expected to arrange + her lustrous, blue-black hair in two large whorls.”</p></td> + <td class="td2"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by A. C. Vroman.</i></p> + <p>“Rows of roguish children’s faces which peer down at you from every + sun-baked housetop.”</p></td> + </tr></table> + <p>YOUNG ACOMANS.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Acoma is Mrs. Pankhurst’s dream come true. +From time beyond reckoning the women have possessed +the privileges and power for which their pale-faced +sisters are so strenuously striving. Not only is +Mrs. Acoma the ruler of her household but she is +absolute owner of the house and all that is in it. In +fact, a man is not permitted to own a house at all, +and if his wife wishes to put him out of her house she +may. Instead of a woman taking her husband’s name +after marriage, he takes hers, and the children that +they have also take the name of their mother. In other +words, if Mr. Smith marries Miss Jones he becomes +Mr. Jones and their children are the little Joneses. +And the men accept their feminine rôles even to playing +nursemaid while the women do the work, it being +not the exception but the rule to see even the governors +and war captains dandling squalling papooses on +their knees or toting them up and down the main +street on their backs. A comic artist couldn’t raise a +smile in Acoma, for he would find that all his pet +jokes are there accepted facts.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus12" style="max-width: 29.6875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus12.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph copyright + by Fred Harvey</i>.</p> + <p>His first riding lesson.</p> + <p class="attr"><i>From a photograph copyright by Fred Harvey</i>.</p> + <p>The dancing lesson.</p> + <p class="attr"><i>From a photograph copyright by Fred Harvey</i>.</p> + <p>The history lesson.</p> + <p>THE EDUCATION OF A YOUNG HOPI.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Even more interesting than Acoma, from an architectural +standpoint, is the pyramid pueblo of Taos +(pronounced as though it were spelled “<i>tous</i>,” if you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>[56]</span> +please). This strange town—in many respects the +most extraordinary in the world—is built on the floor +of a mountain-girdled valley, some seventy miles due +north from Santa Fé, and can best be reached by leaving +the main line of the railway at Barrancas or Servilleta +and driving out to the pueblo by wagon or stage. +Though it is quite possible to reach Taos from Santa +Fé in a single day, the journey is a very fatiguing one, +it being much better to spend the night at the ranch-house +at Arroyo Hondo and go on to the pueblo in +comfort the next morning. There are really two towns—the +white man’s and the Indian’s—four miles apart. +White man’s Taos consists of little more than a sun-swept +plaza bordered on all four sides by Mexican +houses of adobe, while running off from the plaza are +numerous dim and narrow alleys, likewise lined by +humble dwellings of whitewashed mud, in one of +which that immortal hero of American boyhood, Kit +Carson, lived and died. For Taos, you must understand, +was long the terminus of that historic trail by +which the traders and trappers from Kansas and Missouri +went down into the Southwest. Here, then, came +such famous frontiersmen as Carson and Jim Bridger, +and Manuel Lisa, and Jedediah Smith to barter beads +and calico and rum for blankets and turquoises and +furs. Save for a few greybeards who dwell in their +memories of the exciting past, the frontiersmen have +all passed round that dark turning from which no +man returns, and Taos plaza hears the jingle of their +spurs and the clatter of their high-heeled boots no<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[57]</span> +more. In their stead have come another breed of +men, who carry palettes instead of pistols and who +confront the Indian with brushes instead of bowie-knives; +for Taos, because of its extraordinary wealth +of sun and shadow, of yellow deserts and purple +mesas, of scarlet blankets and white walls, has become +the rendezvous for a group of brilliant painters who +are perpetuating on canvas the red men of the terraced +houses. Seen at dusk or in the dimness of the early +dawn, Taos bears a striking resemblance to the low, +squat pyramids at Sakkara, for it consists, in fact, of +two huge pyramidal structures, one six the other +seven stories high, with a stream meandering between. +In their general construction the houses of Taos are +like those of Acoma, but instead of being terraced only +on the front, they are built in two huge squares which +are terraced on all four sides, looking from a little +distance like the pyramids which children erect with +stone building-blocks. These two huge apartment +houses together accommodate upward of eight hundred +souls. Like other Hopi dwellings, they can only +be entered by means of ladders, pulling up the ladder +after him being the Pueblo’s way of bolting his door. +Though it needs iron muscles and leathern lungs to +reach the apartments at the top, the view over the +surrounding country well repays the exertion. Taos +presents, I suppose, the nearest approach to socialistic +life that this country has yet known, for the houses are +built and occupied communally, the truck-gardens, +grain-fields, and grazing lands are held in common, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>[58]</span> +if there is a surplus of hay or grain it is sold by the +community.</p> + +<p>The communal form of government existing +among the Hopi has proven so successful in practice +that the Bureau of Indian Affairs has long since +adopted the policy of leaving well enough alone. Although +these Indians of the terraced houses are wards +of the nation, to use a term which has become almost +ironic, the white man’s law stops short at the boundaries +of their pueblos, for they make their own laws, +enforce them with their own police, maintain their +own courts of justice, and inflict their own peculiar +punishments. In Taos, for example, the stocks are +still used as a punishment for misdemeanours, though +the Indians go the Puritans one better by clamping +down the culprit’s head as well as his hands and feet. +At the head of the Pueblo system of government is an +elected governor, known as the <i>cacique</i>, whose word is +law with a capital L. Associated with him is a council +of wise men called <i>mayores</i>, whose powers are a sort of +cross between those of a board of aldermen and a college +faculty. The activities of this patriarchal council +frequently assume an almost parental character, it +being customary for it to advise the young men of the +pueblo when to marry—and whom. If an Indian gets +into a dispute with a white man the case is tried in +the county court, but differences between themselves +are settled according to their own time-honoured customs. +Though the police force of Acoma consists of +but a solitary constable, whose uniform is a gilt cord<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>[59]</span> +around the crown of his sombrero, he takes himself +quite as seriously as a member of the Broadway traffic +squad, and, judging from his magnificent physique +and the extremely businesslike revolver swinging from +his hip, I doubt not that he would prove quite as +efficient in an emergency.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus13" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus13.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by A. C. Vroman.</i></p> + <p>THE PYRAMID-PUEBLO OF TAOS.</p> + <p>“At Taos the novel architectural scheme has been carried even further + by building the houses five and even six stories high and terracing them + on all four sides, so that they form a sort of pyramid.”</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>The Hopi are as stern and inflexible in the administration +of those laws regulating the conduct of the +community as were the Old Testament prophets. +When a member of the tribe plays football with the +public morals, as occasionally happens, he or she is +tried by the <i>mayores</i> and, if found guilty, is expelled +from the pueblo, bag and baggage. The system is as +efficacious as it is inexpensive. As it chanced, I had +an opportunity to see this novel form of punishment +in operation. I was descending from the mesa at +Acoma with my Laguna driver, who, in the absence of +Carlisle-taught Marie, had served as my interpreter. +He was a surly, taciturn fellow whose name, if my +memory serves me faithfully, was Kill Hi. It should +have been Kill Joy. As we reached the foot of the +precipitous path my attention was attracted by a +crowd, composed of the major portion of the pueblo’s +population, which was stolidly watching four Indians—the +constable and three others—loading a woman +whose hands and feet were bound with ropes into a +wagon. Despite her screams and struggles, they tossed +her in as indifferently as they would a sack of meal.</p> + +<p>“Who is she? What’s the matter?” I asked +Kill Hi.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>[60]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, nothin’ much,” was the indifferent answer. +“She damn bad woman. They no want her here. +They tell her to get out quick—vamoose. She no go. +So they take her off in wagon like you see.”</p> + +<p>“But what are they going to do with her?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’ know. Dump her out in desert, +mebbe.”</p> + +<p>“But what will happen to her?” I persisted. +“Won’t she starve to death?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’ know,” said Kill Hi carelessly, +cramping the buckboard so that I could get in. +“Mebbe. P’raps. Acomas, they queer folks; not like +other people.”</p> + +<p>He was quite right—they certainly are <i>not</i>.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>[61]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="III">III<br> +<span class="smaller">CHOPPING A PATH TO TO-MORROW</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>[62]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“We’re the men that always march a bit before</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Though we cannot tell the reason for the same;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We’re the fools that pick the lock that holds the door—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Play and lose and pay the candle for the game.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There’s no blaze nor trail nor roadway where we go;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">There’s no painted post to point the right-of-way,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But we swing our sweat-grained helves and we chop a path ourselves</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To To-morrow from the land of Yesterday.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>[63]</span></p> + +<h3>III<br> +<span class="smaller">CHOPPING A PATH TO TO-MORROW</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>They came bucketing into town at a hand-gallop, +hat brims flapping, spurs jingling, tie-down straps +streaming, their ponies kicking the dusty road into a +yellow haze behind them. With their gay neckerchiefs +and sheepskin chaps they formed as vivid a group as +one could find outside a Remington. They pulled up +with a great clatter of hoofs in front of the Golden +West saloon and, leaving their panting mounts standing +dejectedly, heads to the ground and reins trailing, +went stamping into the bar. Having had previous +experience with their sort, I made bold to follow them +through the swinging doors; for more unvarnished +facts about a locality, its people, politics, progress, and +prospects, are to be had over a mahogany bar than any +place I know except a barber’s chair.</p> + +<p>“What’ll it be, boys?” sang out one of them, as +they sprawled themselves over the polished mahogany. +I expected to see the bartender matter-of-coursely +shove out a black bottle and six small glasses, for, according +to all the accepted canons of the cow country, +as I had known it a dozen years before, there was only +one kind of a drink ever ordered at a bar. So, when +two of the party expressed a preference for ginger ale +and the other four allowed that they would take lemonade,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>[64]</span> +I felt like going to the door and taking another +look at the straggling frontier town and at the cactus-dotted +desert which surrounded it, just to make sure +I really was in Arizona and not at Chautauqua, New +York.</p> + +<p>It required scant finesse to engage one of the lemonade +drinkers in amicable and illuminating conversation.</p> + +<p>“Round-up hereabouts?” I inquired, by way of +making an opening.</p> + +<p>“Nope,” said my questionee. “Leastways not as +I knows of. You see,” he continued confidentially, +“we’ve quit cow-punching. We’ve tied up with the +movies.”</p> + +<p>“With the what?” I queried.</p> + +<p>“The movies—the moving-picture people, you +know,” he explained. “You see, the folks back East +have gone plumb crazy on these here Wild West +picture plays and we’re gratifying ’em at so much per. +Wagon-train attacked by Indians—good-lookin’ girl +carried off by one of the bucks—cow-punchers to the +rescue, and all that sort of thing. It’s good pay and +easy work, and the grub’s first-rate. Yes, sirree, it’s +got cow-punching beaten to a frazzle. I reckon you’re +from the East yourself, ain’t you?”</p> + +<p>I admitted that I was, adding that my bag was +labelled “New York.”</p> + +<p>“The hell you say!” he exclaimed, regarding me +with suddenly increased respect. “From what I +hearn tell that sure must be some wicked town. +Gambling joints runnin’ wide open, an’ every one packs<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>[65]</span> +a gun, I hear, an’ shootin’ scraps so frequent no one +thinks nothing about ’em. It ain’t a safe place to live, +I say. Now, down here in Arizony things is different. +We’re peaceable, we are. We don’t stand for no promisc’us +gun-play and, barring one or two of the mining +towns, there ain’t a poker palace left, and I wouldn’t +be so blamed surprised if this State went dry in a year +or two. Well, s’long, friend,” he added, sweeping off +his hat, “I’m pleased to’ve made your acquaintance. +The feller with the camera’s waitin’ an’ we’ve got to +get out an’ run off a few miles of film so’s to amuse +the people back East.”</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus14" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus14.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>THE PASSING OF THE PUNCHER.</p> + <p>“Cowboys cavorting in front of cinematographs instead of corralling + cattle—that’s what civilisation has done for Arizona.”</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>I stood in the doorway of the Golden West saloon +and watched them as they swung easily into their saddles +and went tearing up the street in a rolling cloud +of dust. Then I went on my way, marvelling at the +mutability of things. “That’s what civilisation does +for a country,” I said to myself. “Lemonade instead +of liquor; policemen instead of pistol fighters; cowboys +cavorting in front of cinematographs instead of +corralling cattle.” At first blush—I confess it frankly—I +was as disappointed as a boy who wakes up to +find it raining on circus morning, for I had revisited +the Southwest expecting to find the same easy-going, +devil-may-care, whoop-her-up-boys life so characteristic +of that country’s territorial days. Instead I +found a busy, prosperous State, still picturesque in +many of its aspects but as orderly and peaceful as +Commonwealth Avenue on a Sunday morning.</p> + +<p>It wasn’t much of a country, was Arizona, the +first time I set foot in it, upward of a dozen years ago.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>[66]</span> +A howling wilderness is what the Old Testament +prophets would have called it, I suppose, and they +wouldn’t have been far wrong either. Certainly Moses +and his Israelites could not have wandered through a +region more forbidding. Sand and sage-brush and +cactus; snakes and lizards and coyotes; grim purple +mountains in the distance and, flaming in a cloudless +sky, a sun pitiless as fate. Cattlemen and sheepmen +still fought for supremacy on the ranges; faro players +still drove a roaring business in the mining-camps and +the cow-towns; men’s coats screened but did not altogether +conceal the ominous outline of the six-shooter. +As building materials adobe and corrugated iron still +predominated. Portland cement, the barbed-wire +fence, the irrigation ditch, and alfalfa had yet to come +into their own. In those days—and they were not so +very long ago, if you please—A-r-i-z-o-n-a spelled +Frontier with a capital F.</p> + +<p>I recall a little incident of that first visit, insignificant +enough in itself but strangely prophetical of the +changes which were to come. Riding across the most +desolate and inhospitable country I had ever seen, a +roughly written notice, nailed over the door of a ramshackle +adobe ranch-house standing solitary in the desert, +riveted my attention. The ill-formed letters, scrawled +apparently with a sheep brush dipped in tar, read:</p> + +<p class="center">40 MILES FROM WOOD<br> +40 MILES FROM WATER<br> +40 FEET FROM HELL<br> +GOD BLESS OUR HOME</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>[67]</span></p> + +<p>As I pulled up my horse, fascinated by the grim humour +of the lines, the rancher appeared in the doorway +and, with the hospitality characteristic of those who +dwell in the earth’s waste places, bade me dismount +and rest. Such of his face as was not bearded had been +tanned by sun and wind to the colour of a well-smoked +brier; corduroy trousers belted over lean hips and a +flannel shirt open at the throat accentuated a figure as +iron-hard and sinewy as a mountain-lion. About his +eyes, puckered at the outer corners into innumerable +little wrinkles by much staring across sun-scorched +ranges, lurked the humorous twinkle which suggested +the Yankee or the Celt.</p> + +<p>“I stopped to read your sign,” I explained. “If +things are as discouraging as all that I suppose you’ll +pull out of here the first chance you get?”</p> + +<p>“Not by a jugful!” he exclaimed. “I’m here to +stay. You mustn’t take that sign too seriously; it’s +just my brand of humour. This country don’t look up +to much now, I admit, but come back here in a few +years, friend, and you’ll need to be introduced to it +all over again.”</p> + +<p>“But you’ve no water,” I remarked sceptically.</p> + +<p>“We’ll have that before long. You see,” he explained +eagerly, “the Colorado’s not so very far away +and there’s considerable talk about the government’s +damming it and bringing the water down here in diversion +canals and irrigation ditches. If the government +doesn’t help us, then we’ll sink artesian wells +and get the water that way. Once get water on it and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>[68]</span> +this soil’ll do the rest. Why, friend, this land’ll raise +anything—<i>anything!</i> I’m going to put in alfalfa the +first year or two, until I get on my feet, and then I’m +going to raise citrus fruits. There’s never enough +frost here to worry about, and all we need is water to +make this the finest soil for orange growing on God’s +green earth. Just remember what I’m telling you,” +he concluded impressively, tapping my knee with his +forefinger to emphasise his words, “though things +look damned discouraging just now, this is going to be +a great country some day.”</p> + +<p>As I rode across the desert I turned in my saddle +to wave him a farewell, but he had already forgotten +me. He was marking, in the bone-dry, cactus-dotted +soil, the places where he was going to set out his orange-trees. +Though our paths have not crossed again, I +have always remembered him. Resolute, resourceful, +optimistic, self-reliant, blessed with a sense of humour +which jeers at obstacles and laughs discouragements +away, with as fanatic a faith in the future of the land +as has a Moslem in the Koranic paradise, he has typified +for me those pioneers who, by their indomitable +courage and unyielding tenacity, are converting the +arid deserts of the Southwest into a veritable garden +of the Lord.</p> + +<p>Recently, after a lapse of little more than a decade, +I passed that way again. So amazing were the changes +which had taken place in that brief interim that, just +as my optimist had prophesied, I needed a second +introduction to the land. Where I had left a desert,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>[69]</span> +arid, sun-baked, forbidding, I found fields where sleek +cattle grazed knee-deep in alfalfa, and groves ablaze +with golden fruit. Stretching away to the foot-hills +were roads which would have done credit to John +Macadam, and scattered along them at intervals were +prosperous looking ranch-houses of cement or wood; +there was a post-office and a trim row of stores, and a +schoolhouse with a flag floating over it; straggling +cottonwoods marked the courses of the irrigation +streams and in the air was the cheerful sound of running +water. There were two things which had brought +about this miracle—pluck and water.</p> + +<p>Nowhere has the white man fought a more courageous +fight or won a more brilliant victory than in +Arizona. His weapons have been the transit and the +level, the drill and the dredge, the pick and the spade; +and the enemy which he has conquered has been the +most stubborn of all foes—the hostile forces of Nature. +The story of how the white man, within the space of +less than thirty years, penetrated and explored and +mapped this almost unknown region; of how he carried +law and order and justice into a section which +had never had so much as a speaking acquaintance with +any one of the three before; of how, realising the +necessity for means of communication, he built highways +of steel across this territory from east to west +and from north to south; of how, undismayed by the +savageness of the countenance which the desert turned +upon him, he laughed, and rolled up his sleeves, and +spat on his hands, and slashed the face of the desert<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>[70]</span> +with canals and irrigating ditches, and filled those +canals and ditches with water brought from deep in +the earth or high in the mountains; and of how, in the +conquered and submissive soil, he replaced the aloe +with alfalfa, the mesquite with maize, the cactus with +cotton, forms one of the most inspiring chapters in +our history. It is one of the epics of civilisation, this +reclamation of the Southwest, and its heroes are, +thank God, Americans.</p> + +<p>Other desert regions have been redeemed by irrigation; +Egypt, for example, and Mesopotamia, and +parts of the Sudan, but the peoples of all those regions +lay stretched out in the shade of a convenient palm, +metaphorically speaking, and waited for some one with +more energy than themselves to come along and do +the work. But the Arizonians, mindful of the fact that +God, the government, and Carnegie help those who +help themselves, spent their days wielding pick and +shovel and their evenings in writing letters to Washington +with toil-hardened hands. After a time the +government was prodded into action and the great +dams at Laguna and Roosevelt are the result. Then +the people, organising themselves into co-operative +leagues and water-users’ associations, took up the work +of reclamation where the government left off, and it +is to these energetic, persevering men who have drilled +wells and ploughed fields and dug ditches through +the length and breadth of that great region which +stretches from Yuma to Tucson that the metamorphosis +of Arizona is due.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>[71]</span></p> + +<p>More misconceptions are prevalent about Arizona +than about any other region on the continent. The +reclamation phase of its development has been so +emphasised and advertised that among most of those +who have not seen it for themselves the impression +exists that it is a flat, arid, sandy, treeless country, a +small portion of which has, miraculously enough, +proved amenable to irrigation. This impression has +been confirmed by various writers who, sacrificing accuracy +for a phrase, have dubbed Arizona “the American +Egypt,” which, to one who is really familiar with +the physical characteristics of the Nile country and +the agricultural disabilities under which its people +labour, seems a left-handed compliment at best. Egypt—barring +the swamp-lands of the Delta and a fringe +of cultivation along the Nile—is a country of sun-baked +yellow sand, as arid, flat, and treeless as an expanse +of asphalt pavement. Arizona is nothing of +the sort. In its most arid regions there is a small +growth of green even in the dry season, while after +the rains the desert bursts into a brilliancy and diversity +of bloom incredible to one who has not seen it. +How many people who have not visited Arizona are +aware that within the borders of this “desert State” +is the largest pine forest in the United States—six +thousand square miles in area? Egypt, on the other +hand, is, with the exception of the date-palm, virtually +treeless. In Egypt there is not a hill worthy the +name between Alexandria and Wady Halfa; Arizona +has range after range of mountains which rise two<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>[72]</span> +miles and more into the air. Egypt is not a white man’s +land and never will be. Arizona will never be anything +else. If it is necessary to drag in Egypt at all (save as +concerns antiquities) then, for goodness sake, pay the +Khedive’s country a real compliment by calling it +“the African Arizona.”</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus15" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus15.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"> <p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by H. A. + Erickson, Coronado, Cal.</i></p> + <p>WHERE THE ROADS RUN OUT AND THE TRAILS BEGIN.</p> + <p>The Arizona desert: “It is more or less rolling country, corrugated by + buttes and mesas and unexpected outcroppings of rock, its surface covered + by a confused tangle of desert vegetation.”</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>The thing that surprised me most in Arizona was +the desert. An Arab would not call it desert at all; a +Bedouin would never feel at home upon it. I had +expected to find a waste of sand, treeless, shrubless, +plantless, incapable of supporting anything—yellow as +molten brass, sun-scorched, unrelenting. That is the +desert as one knows it in Africa and in Asia. The +Arizona desert is something very different indeed. In +the first place, it is not yellow at all but a sort of bluish-grey; +“driftwood” is probably the term which an +interior decorator would use to describe its peculiarly +soft and elusive colouring. Neither is it flat nor has +it the sand-dunes so characteristic of the Sahara. On +the contrary, it is a more or less rolling country, corrugated +by buttes and mesas and unexpected outcroppings +of rock and sometimes gashed by <i>arroyos</i>, its +surface covered with a confused tangle of desert vegetation +so whimsical and fantastic in the forms it assumes +that it looks for all the world like a prim New +England garden gone violently insane. There is the +<i>cholla</i>, for example, whose fuzzy white spines, so innocent-looking +at a distance, might deceive the stranger +into supposing that it was a sort of wildcat cousin of +the gentle pussy-willow; the towering <i>sajuaro</i>, often<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>[73]</span> +forty feet in height and bearing a striking resemblance +to those mammoth candelabra which flank the altars +of Spanish cathedrals; the octopus-like <i>ocatilla</i>, whose +slender, sinuous branches, tipped with scarlet blossoms, +seem to be for ever groping for something which they +cannot find; the grotesque prickly pear, looking not +unlike a collection of green pincushions, abristle with +pins and glued together at the edges; the sombre +creosote bush, the scraggy mesquite, the silvery grease-wood, +the bright green <i>paloverde</i>. These, with the +white blossoms of the yucca and the pink, orange, +yellow, scarlet, and crimson flowers of the cacti, the +brilliant shades of the rock strata, the purples and +violets and blues of the encircling mountains, the +fleecy clouds drifting like great flocks of unshorn sheep +across an ultramarine sky, combine to form a picture +as far removed from the desert of our imagination as +one could well conceive. Less picturesque than these +colour effects, the portrayal of which would have taxed +the genius of Whistler, but more interesting to the +farmer, are the fine indigenous grasses which spring +up over the mesas after the summer rains (some of +them being, indeed, extraordinarily independent of the +rainfall) and furnish ample if not abundant pasturage +for live stock. I am quite aware, of course, that those +California-bound tourists who gather their impressions +of Arizona from the observation platform of a mail-train +while streaking across the country at fifty miles +an hour are accustomed to dismiss the subject of its +possibilities with a wave of the hand and the dictum:<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>[74]</span> +“Nothing to it but sun, sand, and sage-brush.” Were +those same people to see New York City from the rear +end of a train they would assert that it consisted of +nothing but tenements and tunnels. It is easy to +magnify the barrenness of an arid region, and, that +being so, I would respectfully suggest to the people +of Arizona (and I make no charge for the suggestion) +that they instruct their legislators to enact a law banishing +any one found guilty of applying the defamatory +misnomer “desert” to any portion of the State.</p> + +<p>Though it were not well to take too literally the +panegyrics of the soil and its potentialities which every +board of trade and commercial club in the State print +and distribute by the ton, there is no playing hide-and-seek +with the fact that the soil of a very large part of +Arizona is as versatile as it is productive. At the celebration +with which the people of Yuma marked the +completion of the Colorado River project, prizes were +awarded for <i>forty-three distinct products of the soil</i>. +To recount them would be to enumerate practically +every fruit, vegetable, and cereal native to the temperate +zone and many of those ordinarily found only in +the torrid, for Arizona combines in an altogether exceptional +degree the climatic characteristics of them both. +This not being a seedsman’s catalogue, it is enough to +say that the list began with alfalfa and ended with yams.</p> + +<p>Everything considered, I am inclined to think that +the shortest road to agricultural prosperity lies through +an Arizona alfalfa field, for this proliferous crop, whose +fecundity would put a guinea-pig to shame, possesses +the admirable quality of making the land on which it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>[75]</span> +is grown richer with each cutting. They told me some +prodigious alfalfa yarns in Arizona, but, as each district +goes its neighbour’s record a few tons to the acre +better, I will content myself with mentioning that, in +certain parts of the State, as many as <i>twelve crops of +alfalfa have been cut in a year</i>. I wonder what your +Eastern farmer, who thanks his lucky stars if he can +get one good crop of hay in a year, would think of life +in a land like this?</p> + +<p>Certain of the orange-growing sections of Arizona +have been unwisely advertised as “frostless.” This +is not true, for there is no place within our borders +which is wholly free from frost. It is quite true, however, +that the citrus groves of southern Arizona stand +a better chance of escaping the ravages of frost than +those in any other part of the country. The fruit +ripens, moreover, considerably earlier, the Arizona +growers being able to place their oranges, lemons, and +grapefruit on Eastern dinner-tables a full month in +advance of their Californian competitors.</p> + +<p>Unless I am very much mistaken, two products +hitherto regarded as alien to our soil—the Algerian +date and Egyptian cotton—are bound to prove important +factors in the agricultural future of Arizona. +There is no tree which produces so large a quantity of +fruit and at the same time requires so little attention +as the date-palm when once it gets in bearing, date-palm +groves in North Africa, where the prices are very +low, yielding from five to ten dollars a tree per annum. +They are, as it were, the camels among trees, for they +thrive in soil so sandy and waterless that any other<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>[76]</span> +tree would die from sheer discouragement. The date-palm +has long since passed the experimental stage in +Arizona—the heavily laden groves, which any one who +cares to take the trouble can see for himself at several +places in the southern part of the State, giving ocular +evidence of the success with which this toothsome +fruit can be grown under American conditions. The +other crop which has, I am convinced, a rosy future in +Arizona is Egyptian cotton, which will thrive on less +water than any crop grown under irrigation. The +fibre of the Egyptian cotton being about three times +the length of the ordinary American-grown staple, it +can always find a profitable market among thread +manufacturers when our Southern cotton frequently +goes unharvested because prices are too low to pay for +picking, an average of about fifty-five million pounds +of Egyptian cotton being imported into the United +States each year. With the fertile soil, the warm, dry +climate, and the water resources which are being so +rapidly developed, the day is not far distant when the +traveller through certain sections of Arizona will look +out of the window of his Pullman at a fleeting landscape +of fleecy white.</p> + +<p>“That isn’t snow, is it, George?” he will ask the +porter, and that grinning Ethiopian will answer:</p> + +<p>“No, suh, dat ain’t snow—dat’s ’Gyptian cotton.”</p> + +<p class="tb">This is no virgin, untried soil, remember. Centuries +before the great Genoese navigator set foot on +the beach of San Salvador, southern Arizona was the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>[77]</span> +home of a dense and prosperous population, skilled in +agriculture and past masters in irrigation, the canals +which they constructed, the ruins of which may still +be seen, providing object-lessons for the engineers of +to-day. It is peculiarly interesting to recall that when +the crusaders were battling with the Saracens in Palestine, +when the Byzantine Empire was at the height +of its glory, when the Battle of Hastings had yet to be +fought, when Canute of Denmark ruled in England, a +remarkable degree of civilisation prevailed in this +remote corner of the Americas. By civilisation I mean +that the inhabitants of this region dwelt in desert sky-scrapers +four, five, perhaps even six stories in height, +that they possessed an organised government, that +they had evolved a practical co-operative system not +unlike the water-users’ associations of the Arizona of +to-day, and that, by means of a system of dams, aqueducts, +and reservoirs—the remains of which may still +be seen—they had succeeded in reclaiming a by no +means inconsiderable region. So great became the +agricultural prosperity of this early people that it +excited the cupidity of the warlike tribes to the north, +who, in a series of forays probably extending over +decades, at last succeeded in exterminating or driving +out this agricultural population. Their many-storied +dwellings crumbled, the canals and aqueducts which +they constructed fell into disrepair, the soil once again +dried up for lack of water and returned in time to +its original state, the habitat of the cactus and the +mesquite, the haunt of the coyote and the snake.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>[78]</span></p> + +<p>Centuries passed, during which migratory bands +of Indians were the only visitors to this silent and +deserted land. Then, trudging up from the Spanish +settlements to the southward, came Brother Marcos +de Niza in his sandals and woollen robe. He, the +first white man to set foot in Arizona, after penetrating +as far northward as the Zuñi towns, returned +to Mexico, or New Spain, as it was then called, where +he related what he had seen to one of the Spanish +officials, Don Francisco Vasquez de Coronado, who +promptly equipped an expedition and started northward +on his own account. Followed by half a thousand +Spanish horse and foot, a few hundred friendly Indians, +and a mile-long mule train, the expedition wound +across the burning deserts of Chihuahua, over the +snow-clad mountains of Sonora, through rivers swollen +into torrents by the spring rains, and so into Arizona, +where, raising the red-and-yellow banner, he took +possession of all this country in the name of his Most +Catholic Majesty of Spain. This was in the year of +grace 1540, when the ghost of Anne Boleyn still +disturbed the sleep of Henry VIII and when Solyman +the Magnificent was hammering at the gates of Budapest. +By the beginning of the seventeenth century +the country now comprising the State of Arizona was +dotted with Spanish priests, who, in their missions of +sun-dried bricks, devoted themselves to the disheartening +task of Christianising the Indians. In 1680, however, +came the great Indian revolt; the friars were +slain upon their altars, their missions were ransacked<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>[79]</span> +and destroyed, and the work of civilisation which they +had begun was set back a hundred years.</p> + +<p>The nineteenth century was approaching its +quarter mark before the first American frontiersmen, +pushing southward from the Missouri in quest of furs +and gold, penetrated Arizona. Came then in rapid +succession the Mexican War, which resulted in the +cession to the United States of New Mexico, which +then included all that portion of Arizona lying north +of the Gila River; the discovery of gold in California, +which, by drawing attention to the country south of +the Gila as a desirable transcontinental railway route, +resulted in its purchase under the terms of the Gadsden +Treaty; and the outbreak of the Civil War, a Confederate +invasion of Arizona in 1862 resulting in its +organisation as a Territory of the Union. The early +period of American rule was extremely unsettled; +Indian massacres and the dangerous elements which +composed the population—prospectors, cow-punchers, +adventurers, gamblers, bandits, horse thieves—leading +to one of the worst though one of the most picturesque +periods of our frontier history. On February the 14th, +1912, the Territory of Arizona was admitted to the +sisterhood of States, and George W. P. Hunt, its first +elected governor, standing on the steps of the capitol, +swung his hat in the air and called on the assembled +crowd for three cheers as a ball of bunting ran up the +staff and broke out into a flag with eight-and-forty +stars.</p> + +<p>Notwithstanding the fact that the area of Arizona<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>[80]</span> +is greater than that of Italy, there are only three +communities in the State—Phœnix, Tucson, and Prescott—which +by any stretch of the census taker’s +figures are entitled to be called cities. They are, however, +as far removed from the whoop-and-hurrah, let-her-go-Gallegher +cow-towns which most outlanders +associate with the Southwest as a young, attractive, +and well-poised college girl is from a wild-eyed and +dishevelled, militant suffragette. Phœnix, the capital, +I had pictured as consisting of a broad and very dusty +main street bordered by houses of adobe and unpainted +wooden shacks, its sidewalks of yellow pine shaded +by wooden awnings, with cow-ponies tied to the railings +and with every other place a temple to the goddesses +of Alcohol or Chance. I was—I admit it with +shame—as ignorant as all that, and this is my medium +of apology. As a matter of fact, Phœnix is as modern +and up-to-the-minute as a girl just back from Paris. +Its streets are paved so far into the country that you +wonder if the Venezuelan asphalt beds are likely to +hold out. Its leading hotels are as liberally bathtubised +as those of Broadway, and the head waiter in +the Adams House café will hand you a menu which +contains every gastronomic delicacy from caviare +d’Astrachan to fromage de Brie. Gambling is as unfashionable +as it is at Lake Mohonk, the municipal +regulations being so stringent that such innocent affairs +as raffles, church fairs, and grab-bags are practically +prohibited, while the charge for a liquor licence has been +placed at such a prohibitive figure that gentlemen<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81"></a>[81]</span> +with dry throats are compelled to walk several blocks +before they can find a place with swinging doors. +Tucson, on the other hand, still retains many of its +Mexican characteristics. It is a town of broad and +sometimes abominably dusty streets lined with many +buildings of staring white adobe, the sidewalks along +its principal business thoroughfares being shaded by +hospitable wooden awnings, which are a godsend to +the pedestrian during the fierce heat of midsummer. +It is a picturesque and interesting town, is Tucson, and, +as the guide-book writers put it, will well repay a +visit—provided the weather is not too hot and the +visit is not too long. Prescott, magnificently situated +on a mountainside in the Black Hills, is the centre of +an incredibly rich mining region—did you happen to +know that Arizona is the greatest producer of copper +in the world, its output exceeding that of Montana or +Michigan or Mexico? The feature of Prescott that I +remember most distinctly is the “Stope” room in the +Yavapai Club, an architectural conceit which produces +the effect of a stope, or gallery in a mine—fitting +tribute of the citizens of a mining town to the industry +which gives it being.</p> + +<p>Should you ever find yourself on the Santa Fé, +Prescott & Phœnix Railway, which is the only north-and-south +line in the State, forming a link between the +Santa Fé and Southern Pacific systems, I hope that +you will tell the conductor to let you off at Hot Springs +Junction, which is the station for Castle Hot Springs, +which lie a score or so of miles beyond the sound of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82"></a>[82]</span> +the locomotive’s raucous shriek, in a cañon of the +Bradshaw Mountains. It is a <i>dolce far niente</i> spot—a +peaceful backwater of the tumultuous stream of life. +Hemmed in on every side by precipitous walls of rock +is a toy valley carpeted with lush, green grass and +dotted with palms and fig trees and innumerable varieties +of cacti and clumps of giant cane. A mountain +stream meanders through it, and on the hillside above +the scattered buildings of the hotel, whose low roofs and +deep, cool verandas, taken in conjunction with the +subtropic vegetation, vividly recall the dak-bungalows +in the Indian hills, are three great pools screened by +hedges of bamboo, in which one can go a-swimming in +midwinter without having any preliminary shivers, as +the temperature of the water ranges from 115 to 122 +degrees.</p> + +<p>When I was at Castle Hot Springs I struck up an +acquaintance with an old-time prospector who asserted +that he was the original discoverer of the place.</p> + +<p>“It was nigh on forty year ago,” he began, reminiscently. +“I’d been prospectin’ up on the headwaters +of the Verde. One day, while I was ridin’ +through the foot-hills west o’ here a war party of +’Paches struck my trail, an’ the fust thing I knowed +the hull blamed bunch was after me lickety-split as +fast as their ponies could lay foot to ground. I was +ridin’ a pinto that could run like hell let loose in a +rainstorm, and as she was middlin’ fresh I reckoned I +wouldn’t have much trouble gettin’ away from ’em, an’ +I wouldn’t, neither, if I’d been tol’rable familiar with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>[83]</span> +the country hereabouts. But I warn’t; and by gum, +friend, if I didn’t ride plumb into this very cañon! +Yes, sirree, that’s just what I went an’ done! Its +walls rose up as steep an’ smooth as the side of a house +in front o’ me an’ to the right o’ me an’ to the left o’ +me—an’ behind me were the Injuns, yellin’ an’ whoopin’ +like the red devils that they were. I seen that it was +all over but the shoutin’, for there warn’t no possible +chanct to escape—not one!”</p> + +<p>“And what happened to you?” interrupted an +excited listener.</p> + +<p>“What happened to me?” was the withering answer. +“Hell, what could happen? They killed me, +damn ’em; <i>they killed me!</i>”</p> + +<p class="tb">From a climatic standpoint Arizona is really a +tropic country modified in the north by its elevation. +It has no summer or winter in the generally accepted +sense, but instead a short rainy season in July and +August and a dry one the rest of the year. In the +spring and fall dust-storms are frequent—and if you +have never experienced an Arizona dust-storm you +have something to be thankful for—while in the summer +it gets so hot that I have seen them cover the skylight +of the Hotel Adams in Phœnix with canvas and +keep a stream of water playing on it from sunup to +sundown. The warmest part of the State, and, in +fact, the warmest place north of the lowlands of the +Isthmus—barring Death Valley—is the valley of the +lower Gila in the neighbourhood of Yuma, where<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>[84]</span> +the mercury in a shaded thermometer not infrequently +climbs to the 130 mark. It should be said, however, +that, owing to the extreme dryness of the air, evaporation +from moist surfaces is very rapid, so that the high +temperatures of southern Arizona are decidedly less +oppressive than much lower temperatures in a humid +atmosphere. As a result of this dryness and of the +all-pervading sunshine, Arizona has in recent years +come to be looked upon as a great natural sanitarium, +and to it flock thousands of sufferers from catarrhal +and tubercular diseases. Everything considered, however, +I do not believe that Arizona is by any means an +ideal sick-man’s country; for, particularly in advanced +stages of tuberculosis, there is always the danger of +overstimulation, the patient, buoyed up by the champagne-like +quality of the air, feeling well before he is +well and overexerting himself in consequence.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the innate politeness of the Arizonians was +never put to a severer test than it was a few years +ago, when Mr. Chauncey Depew, then at the height +of his fame as a speaker, utilised the opportunity +afforded by changing engines at Yuma to address a +few remarks to the assembled citizens of the place +from the platform of his private car. Now Yuma, as +I have already remarked, has the reputation of being +the red-hottest spot north of Panama, and its residents +are correspondingly touchy when any illusion is made +to the torridness of their climate. Imagine their feelings, +then, when Mr. Depew, in the course of his remarks, +dragged in the bewhiskered story of the soldier<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>[85]</span> +who died at Fort Yuma from a combination of sunstroke +and delirium tremens. The following night his +bunkie received a spirit message from the departed. +“Dear Bill,” it ran, “please send down my blankets.” +Now that story is hoary with antiquity. I have heard +it told in the officers’ mess at Aden, and at Bahrein +at the head of the Persian Gulf, and on the terrace of +the club in Zanzibar, with its locale laid in each of +those places, and I haven’t the least doubt in the +world but that it evoked a yawn from King Rameses +when it was told to him in Thebes. Yet the inhabitants +of Yuma, with a politeness truly Chesterfieldian, +not only did not yawn or groan or hiss when Mr. +Depew saddled the ancient libel upon their town, but +it is said that one or two of them even laughed hoarsely. +The Arizonian heat is not of the sunstroke variety, +however, and the thrasher gangs work right through it +all summer from ten to fourteen hours a day; and this, +remember, is only in the desert half of the State—the +mountain half is as high and cool as you could wish, +with snow-capped mountains and green grass and +running water and fish and game everywhere.</p> + +<p>Speaking of game, certain portions of Arizona still +offer opportunities aplenty for the sportsman who +knows how to ride and can stand fatigue. In the foot-hills +of the Catalina Range mountain-lions are almost +as common as are back-yard cats in Brooklyn. Patience, +perseverance, and a pack of well-trained “b’ar +dogs” rarely fail to provide the hunter with an opportunity +to swing his front sights onto a black bear or a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>[86]</span> +cinnamon on the Mogollon Plateau. Spotted leopards, +or jaguars, frequently make their way into the southern +counties from Mexico and serve to furnish handsome +rugs for the ranch-houses of the region. Though +small herds of antelope are still occasionally seen, the +law has stepped in at the eleventh hour and fifty-ninth +minute and prevented their complete extermination. +But if you want an experience to relate over +the coffee and cigars that will make your friends’ +stories of bear hunting in British Columbia and moose +hunting in Maine sound as tame and commonplace as +woodchuck shooting on the farm, why don’t you run +down to that portion of Arizona lying along the Mexican +border and hunt wild camels? I’m perfectly serious—there +<i>are</i> wild camels there. They came about in +this fashion: Along in the late seventies, if I am not +mistaken, the Department of Agriculture, thinking to +confer an inestimable boon on the struggling settlers +of the arid Southwest, imported several hundred head +of camels from Egypt, arguing that if they could carry +heavy burdens over great stretches of waterless and +pastureless desert in Africa, there was no reason why +they could not do the same thing in Arizona, where +almost identically the same conditions prevailed. But +the paternalistic officials in Washington failed to take +into account the prejudices of the packers. Now, the +camel is a supercilious and ill-natured beast, quite +different from the patient and uncomplaining burro, +but the Arabs, who have grown up with him, as it were, +make allowance for the peculiarities of his disposition<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87"></a>[87]</span> +and get along with him accordingly. Not so the +Arizona packer. He took a hearty dislike to the ship +of the desert from the first and never let pass an opportunity +to do it harm. As a result of this hostility +and abuse, many of the poor beasts died and the remainder +were finally turned loose in the desert to +shift for themselves. If they have not multiplied +they at least have not decreased and are still to be +found in those uninhabited stretches of desert which +lie along the Mexican frontier. They are not protected +by law and are wild enough and speedy enough to +require some hunting; so if you want to add to your +collection of trophies a head that, as a cowboy acquaintance +of mine put it, is really “rayshayshay,” you can’t +do better than to go into the desert and bag a dromedary.</p> + +<p class="tb">In speaking of Arizona it must be borne in mind +that the State consists of two distinct regions, as dissimilar +in climate and physiography as Florida and +Maine. Theirs is the difference between plateau and +plain, between sandstone and sand, between pine +and palm. If you will take a pencil and ruler and draw +a line diagonally across the map of the State, from +Mojave City on the Colorado, to Bisbee on the Mexican +border, you will have a rough idea of the extent +of these two zones. That portion of the State lying to +the north of this imaginary line is a six-thousand-foot-high +plateau, mountainous and heavily forested, with +green grass and running water and cold, dry winters,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88"></a>[88]</span> +and an annual rainfall which frequently exceeds thirty +inches. To the south of this quartering line lies a tremendous +stretch of arid but fertile land, broken at +intervals by hills and mountain ranges, with a sparse +vegetation and an annual rainfall which, particularly +in the vicinity of the Colorado, often does not exceed +three inches. It is in this southern portion, however, +that the future of Arizona lies, for the success of the +great irrigation projects at Roosevelt and Laguna (and +which will doubtless be followed in the not far distant +future by similar undertakings on the Santa Cruz, +the San Pedro, the Agua Frio, the Verde, the Little +Colorado, and the lower Gila) have given convincing +proof that all that its arid soil requires is water to transform +it into a land of farms and orchards and gardens, +in which the energetic man of modest means—and it +is such men who form the backbone of every country—can +find a generous living and a delightful home.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus16" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus16.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>THE TRAIL OF A THOUSAND THRILLS.</p> + <p>The road from Phœnix to the Roosevelt Dam—“its right angle corners and + hairpin turns are calculated to make the hair of the motorist permanently + pompadour.”</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>A grave injustice has been done to the people of +the State by those fiction writers who have depicted +Arizona society as consisting of cow-punchers, faro +dealers, and bad men. The pictures they still persist +in drawing of towns shot up by drunken cowboys, of +saloons and poker palaces running at full blast, of +stage-coaches and mail-trains held up and robbed, are +as much out of date, if the reading public only knew it, +as crinoline skirts and flowered satin vests. As a matter +of fact, Arizona claims the most law-abiding population +in the United States, and the claim is copper-riveted +by the criminal records. The gambler and the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>[89]</span> +gun fighter have disappeared, driven out by the force +of public disapproval. The Arizona Rangers, that +picturesque body of constabulary which policed the +country in territorial days, have been disbanded because +there is no longer work for them to do. While +it is not to be denied that a large number of the citizens, +particularly in the range country, still carry +firearms, it must not be inferred that crime is winked +at or that murder is regarded with a whit more tolerance +than it is in the East. The sheriffs and marshals +of Arizona are famous as “go-gitters” and a very +large proportion of the gentry whom they have gone +for and gotten are promptly given free board and +lodging in a large stone building at Florence, on the +outer walls of which men pace up and down with +Winchesters over the shoulders. The Arizona State +Penitentiary at Florence is one of the most modern +and humanely conducted penal institutions in the +United States, being under the direct supervision of +Governor Hunt, who is one of the foremost advocates +of prison reform in the country. When I visited the +penitentiary with the governor, instead of spending the +night at the residence of the warden, he insisted on +occupying a cell in “murderer’s row.” His experiment +in introducing the honour system in the Arizona prisons +has met with such pronounced success that roads +and bridges are now being constructed throughout the +State by gangs of prisoners in charge of unarmed +wardens. In this connection they tell an amusing +story of an English tourist who was getting his first<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>[90]</span> +view of Arizona from the observation platform of a +Pullman. As the train tore westward his attention was +attracted by the conspicuous suits worn by a force of +men engaged in building a bridge.</p> + +<p>“I say,” he inquired, screwing a monocle into his +eye and addressing himself to the Irish brakeman, +“who are the johnnies in the striped clothing?”</p> + +<p>“Thim’s som uv Guv’nor Hunt’s pets from th’ +Sthate prison,” was the answer. “Most av thim’s +murtherers too.”</p> + +<p>“My word!” exclaimed the Briton, staring the +harder. “Isn’t it jolly dangerous to have murderers +running loose about the country like that? What?”</p> + +<p>“Not at all,” the brakeman answered carelessly; +“yez see, sorr, in most cases there was exterminating +circumstances.”</p> + +<p class="tb">The other day, when the promoters of Phœnix’s +annual carnival wished to obtain a stage-coach to use +in the street pageants, they could not find one in the +State; they had all been bought by the moving-picture +concerns. A stage still runs over the mountains from +Phœnix to Globe, driven by a gentleman who chews +tobacco and wears a broad-brimmed hat, but it has +sixty-horse-power engines under it and the fashion in +which the driver takes the giddy turns—he assured +me that he went round them on two wheels so as to +save rubber—is calculated to make the passengers’ +hair permanently pompadour. Out in the back +country, where the roads run out and the trails begin,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>[91]</span> +the cow-puncher is still to be found, but he, like the +longhorns which he herds, is rapidly retreating before +civilisation’s implacable advance.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus17" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus17.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by H. A. + Erickson, Coronado, Cal.</i></p> + <p>THROWING THE DIAMOND HITCH.</p> + <p>“Out in the back country ... the old, picturesque life of the frontier is + still to be found.”</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p class="tb">The history of Arizona divides itself into three +epochs—the aboriginal, the exploratory, and the reclamatory, +or, if you prefer, the Indian, the Spanish, +and the American—and each of these epochs is typified +by a remarkable and wholly characteristic structure: +the ruins of Casa Grande, the Mission of San +Xavier del Bac, and the Roosevelt Dam. Casa Grande—“the +Great House”—or Chichitilaca, to give it its +Aztec name, which rises from the desert some sixty +miles southeast of Phœnix, is the most remarkable +plain ruin in the whole Southwest and the only one of +its kind in the United States. It is a four-storied house +of sun-dried puddled clay, forming, with its cyclopean +walls, its low doorways so designed that any enemy +would have to enter on hands and knees, and its labyrinth +of rooms, courtyards, and corridors, a striking +and significant relic of a forgotten people. Already a +ruin when discovered, in 1694, by the Jesuit Father +Kino, how old it is or who built it even the archæologists +have been unable to decide. Its crumbling ruins +are emblematic of a race of sturdy red men, growers of +grain and breeders of cattle, whose energy and resource +wrested this region from the desert, and who were +driven out of it by the greed of a stronger and more +warlike people.</p> + +<p>In the shadow of the foot-hills, where the Santa<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>[92]</span> +Rita Mountains sweep down to meet the desert half a +dozen miles outside Tucson, stands the white Mission +of San Xavier del Bac. It is the sole survivor of that +chain of outposts of the church which the friars of the +Spanish orders stretched across Arizona in their campaign +of proselytism three centuries ago. I saw it for +the first time at sunset, its splendid, carved façade +rose-tinted by the magic radiance of twilight, its domes +and towers and minarets silhouetted against the purple +of the mountains as though carved from ivory. +Perhaps it is the dramatic effect produced as, swinging +sharply around the corner of the foot-hills, one comes +upon it suddenly, standing white and solitary and +lovely between the desert and the sky, but I shall +always rank it with the Taj Mahal, the Alhambra, +and the Mosque of Sultan Hassan as one of the most +beautiful buildings I have ever seen. If California had +that mission she would advertise and exploit it to the +skies, but they don’t seem to pay much attention to it +in Arizona, being too much occupied, I suppose, with +other and more important things. In fact, I had to +inquire of three people in the hotel at Tucson before I +could learn just where it was. Although the patter of +monastic sandals upon its flagged floors has ceased +these many years, San Xavier is neither deserted nor +run down, for the sonorous phrases of the mass are still +heard daily from its altar, serene and smiling nuns +conduct a school for Indian children within the precincts +of its white-walled cloisters, and at twilight +the angelus-bell still booms its brazen summons and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>[93]</span> +the red men from the adjacent reservation come trooping +in for evening prayer. The last of the Arizona +missions, it stands as a fitting memorial to the courageous +<i>padres</i> who first brought Christianity to Arizona, +many of them at the cost of their lives.</p> + +<p>Eighty miles north of Phœnix, at the back of the +Superstition Mountains and almost under the shadow +of the Four Peaks, is the great Roosevelt Dam—the +last word, as it were, in the American chapter of Arizona’s +history. Those who know whereof they speak +have estimated that four fifths of the State is fitted, so +far as the potentialities of the soil is concerned, for +agriculture, but hitherto the lack of rainfall has reduced +the available area to that which lay within the +capabilities of the somewhat meagre streams to irrigate. +This was particularly true of the region of which +Phœnix is the centre. Came then quiet, efficient men +who proceeded to perform a modern version of the +miracle of Moses, for, behold, they smote the rock and +where there had been no water before there was now +water and to spare. Across a narrow cañon in the +mountains they built a Gargantuan dam of sandstone +and cement to hold in check and to conserve for use in +the dry season the waters of the river which swirled +through it. The great artificial lake, twenty-five square +miles in area, thus created, holds water enough to +cover more than a million and a quarter acres with a +foot of water and assures a permanent supply to the +two hundred and forty thousand acres included in the +project. The farmers of the Salt River valley, which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>[94]</span> +comprises the territory under irrigation, forming +themselves into an association, entered into a contract +with the government to repay the cost of the dam in +ten years, whereupon it will become the property of +the landowners themselves; the water, under the terms +of the agreement, becoming appurtenant to the land. +Just as the crumbling ruins at Casa Grande serve as a +reminder of a race long since dead and gone, and as +the white mission at Tucson is a memorial to the +Spaniards who came after them, so is the mighty dam +at Roosevelt, together with its accompanying prosperity, +a monument to the courage, daring, and resource +of the American. It is a very wonderful work +that is being done down there in Arizona, and to the +toil-hardened, sun-tanned men who are doing it I am +proud to raise my hat. Such men are pioneers of +progress, carpenters of empire, and they are chopping +a path for you and me, my friends, “to To-morrow +from the land of Yesterday.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>[95]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="IV">IV<br> +<span class="smaller">THE LAND OF DREAMS-COME-TRUE</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>[96]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“It lies where God hath spread it,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In the gladness of His eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like a flame of jewelled tapestry</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Beneath His shining skies;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With the green of woven meadows,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And the hills in golden chains,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The light of leaping rivers,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And the flash of poppied plains.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="center">...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Sun and dews that kiss it,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Balmy winds that blow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The stars in clustered diadems</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Upon its peaks of snow;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The mighty mountains o’er it,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Below, the white seas swirled—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Just California stretching down</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The middle of the world.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>[97]</span></p> + +<h3>IV<br> +<span class="smaller">THE LAND OF DREAMS-COME-TRUE</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>Because it is at the very bottom of the map and +almost athwart the imaginary line which separates +the Land of Mañana from the Land of Do-It-Now, +the Imperial Valley seems the logical place to begin a +journey through southern California. The term +“southern California,” let me add, is usually applied +to that portion of the State lying south of the Tehachapis, +which would probably form the boundary in +the event of California splitting into two States—an +event which is by no means as unlikely as most outsiders +suppose. No romance of the West—and that is +where most of the present-day romances, newspaper, +magazine, book, and film, come from—excels that of +the Imperial Valley. These half a million sun-scorched +acres which snuggle up against the Mexican boundary, +midway between San Diego and Yuma, have proven +themselves successors of the gold-fields as producers +of sudden wealth; they are an agricultural Cave of +Al-ed-Din. Now, the trouble with writing about the +Imperial Valley is that if you tell the truth you will be +accused of being a booster. But, to paraphrase Davy +Crockett: “Be sure your facts are right, then go +ahead.” And I am sure of my facts. You may believe +them or not, just as you please.</p> + +<p>Not much more than a decade ago two brothers,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>[98]</span> +freighting across the Colorado Desert from Yuma to +San Diego, stumbled upon twelve human skeletons, +white-bleached, upon the sand—grim tokens of a +prospecting party which had perished from thirst. +To-day the Colorado Desert is no more. Almost on +the spot where those distorted skeletons were found a +city has risen—a city with cement sidewalks and +asphalted streets and electric lights and concrete +office-buildings and an Elks’ Hall and moving-picture +houses; a city whose municipal council recently passed +an ordinance prohibiting the hitching of teams on the +main business thoroughfare, “to prevent congestion +of traffic,” as a local paper explained in breaking the +news to the farmers. About the time that we changed +the date-lines on our business stationery from 189- to +190- this was as desolate, arid, and hopeless-looking +a region as you could have found between the oceans—and +I’m not specifying which oceans either. Even the +coyotes, as some one has remarked, used to make their +last will and testament before venturing to cross it. +In 1902 the United States Department of Agriculture +sent one of its soil experts—at least he was called an +expert—to this region to investigate its agricultural +possibilities. Here is what he reported: “Aside from +the alkali, which renders part of the soil practically +worthless, some of the land is so rough from gullies or +sand-dunes that the expense of levelling it is greater +than warranted by its value. In the one hundred and +eight thousand acres surveyed, 27.4 per cent are sand-dunes +or rough land.... The remainder of the level<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>[99]</span> +land contains too much alkali to be safe, except for +resistant crops. One hundred and twenty-five thousand +acres have already been taken up by prospective +settlers, many of whom talk of planting crops which +it will be absolutely impossible to grow. They must +early find that it is useless to attempt their growth.” +If the sun-bronzed settlers had followed this cock-sure +advice, the Imperial would still be a waste of sun-swept +sand. But pioneers are not made that way. +Instead of becoming discouraged and moving away +after reading the report of the government expert, +they merely grinned confidently and went on clearing +the sage-brush from their land—for sixty miles to the +eastward, across a country as flat as a hotel piazza, +the Colorado River, with its wealth of water, rolled +down to the sea. And water was all that was needed +to turn these thirsty sands into pastures and orchards +and gardens. The government curtly declining to +lend its aid, the settlers went ahead and brought the +water in themselves. It took determination and perspiration, +a lot of both, to dig a diversion canal across +those threescore miles of burning desert, but by the +end of 1902 the work was done, the valley was introduced +to its first drink of water, and the first crops were +begun. To-day the Imperial Valley, with its seven +hundred miles of canals, is the greatest body of irrigated +land in the world. In 1900 the government was +offering land there for a dollar and a quarter an acre. +In 1914 land was selling (<i>selling</i>, mind you, not merely +being offered) for <i>just a thousand times that sum</i>.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus18" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus18.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>How Mr. and Mrs. Powell saw Arizona.</p> + <p>“One comes upon it suddenly, standing white and solitary and lovely + between the desert and the sky.”</p> + <p>SCENES IN THE MOTOR JOURNEY THROUGH ARIZONA.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>[100]</span></p> + +<p>Its soil is, I suppose, everything considered, the +most fertile and versatile in the world. Its one hundred +and twenty-five thousand acres of alfalfa yield twelve +crops a year. I was shown a patch of thirty-three +acres from which forty-five head of cattle are fed the +year round. Later on another proud and prosperous +husbandman showed me some land which had produced +two and a half bales of long-staple cotton to the +acre. Early in February the valley growers begin to +export fresh asparagus; their shipments cease in April, +when districts farther north begin to produce, and +start again in the fall when asparagus has once more +become a luxury. Pears ripen in December; figs are +being picked at Christmas; grapes are sent out by the +car-load in early June, six weeks before they ripen elsewhere +save under glass. The valley is famous for its +cantaloups, which are protected during their early +growth by paper drinking cups. It would seem, +indeed, as though Nature was trying to recompense +the Imperial Valley for the unhappiness of her earlier +years by giving her the earliest and the latest crops. +A restricted region in the northeastern part of the +valley is the only spot in the New World in which the +Deglet Noor date—a variety so jealously guarded by +the Arabs that few samples of it have ever been smuggled +out of the remote Saharan oases of which it is a +native—matures and can be commercially grown.</p> + +<p>Barely a dozen years have slipped by since the +Imperial Valley was wedded to the Colorado River. +From that union have sprung five towns which are<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>[101]</span> +now large enough to wear long pants—Imperial, El +Centre, Calexico, Holtville, and Brawley—while several +other communities are in the knickerbocker stage of +development. Though scarcely a decade separates +them from the yellow desert, they resemble frontier +towns about as much as does Gary, Ind. The wooden +shacks and corrugated-iron huts so characteristic of +most new Western towns are wholly lacking in their +business districts. The buildings are for the most part +of concrete in the appropriate Spanish mission style; +every building is designed to harmonise with its neighbours +on either side; every building has its <i>portales</i>, or +porticoed arcade, over the sidewalk, thus providing pedestrians +with a welcome protection from the sun; for, +though the valley boosters never cease to emphasise the +fact that there is practically no humidity, they forget +to add that in summer the air is like a blast from an +open furnace door.</p> + +<p>When I was in the valley I dined with a friend +one night on the terrace of the very beautiful country +club of El Centro. Pink-shaded candles cast a rosy +glow upon the faultless napery and silver of our table +and all about us were similar tables at which sat sun-tanned, +prosperous-looking men in white flannels and +women in filmy gowns. Silent-footed Orientals slipped +to and fro like ghosts, bearing chafing-dishes and gaily +coloured ices and tall, thin glasses with ice tinkling in +them. When the coffee had been set beside us we +lighted our cigars and, leaning back in great contentment, +looked meditatively out upon the moonlit countryside.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>[102]</span> +Amid the dark patches of alfalfa and the +shadow-dappled plots which I knew to be truck-gardens; +through the ghostly branches of the eucalyptus, +whose leaves stirred ever so gently in the night breeze, +gleamed the cheerful lights of many bungalows.</p> + +<p>“A dozen years ago,” said my host impressively, +“that country out there was a howling wilderness. +Its only products were cactus and sage-brush. Its only +inhabitants were the coyote, the lizard, and the snake. +The man who ventured into it carried his life in his +hands. Look at it now—one of the garden spots of +the world! It’s one of God’s own miracles, isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>And I agreed with him that it was.</p> + +<p class="tb">From El Centro to San Diego is something over +a hundred miles, but until very recently it might as +well have been three hundred, so far as freight or +passenger traffic between the two places was concerned, +that being the approximate distance by the roundabout +railway route. Though a railway is now in course of +construction which will eventually give the valley towns +direct communication with Yuma and San Diego, the +enterprising merchants of the latter city had no intention +of waiting for the completion of the railway to +get the rich valley trade. So they raised a quarter of +a million dollars and with that money they proceeded +to build a highway into the Imperial Valley. Over +that highway, which is as good as any one would ask +to ride on, rolls an unending procession of motor-trucks, +bearing seeds and harness and farming implements<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>[103]</span> +and phonographs and pianos and brass +beds from San Diego stores to Imperial Valley ranches, +and poultry and early fruit and grain from those +ranches back to San Diego. That illustrates the sort +of people that the San Diegans are. It is almost unnecessary +to add that the road has already paid for +itself with interest.</p> + +<p>To understand the peculiar geography of San +Diego, and of its joyous little sister Coronado, you +must picture in your mind a U-shaped harbour containing +twenty square miles of the bluest water you will +find anywhere outside a bathtub. Strewn upon the +gently sloping hillsides which form the bottom of the +U are the chalk-white buildings and tree-lined, flower-banked +boulevards which make San Diego look like +one of those imaginary cities which scene-painters are +so fond of painting for back-drops of comic operas. +The right-hand horn of the U corresponds to the rocky +headland known as Point Loma, where Madame +Tingley and her disciples of the Universal Brotherhood +theosophise under domes of violet glass; and in the +very middle of the U, or, in other words, in the middle +of San Diego harbor, on an almost-island whose sandy +surface has been lawned and flower-bedded and +landscaped into one of the beauty-spots of the world, +is Coronado.</p> + +<p>Coronado isn’t really an island, you understand, +for it is connected with the mainland by a sandy +shoe-string a dozen miles long and so narrow that even +a duffer could drive a golf-ball across it. There is nothing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>[104]</span> +quite like Coronado anywhere. It may convey +something to you if I say that it is a combination of +Luxor, Sorrento, and Palm Beach. And then some. +It is one of those places where, unless you have on a +Panama hat and white shoes and flannel trousers (in +the case of ladies I don’t insist on the trousers, of +course), you feel awkward and ill-dressed and out of +the picture. You know the sort of thing I mean. +There are miles of curving, asphalted parkways, bordered +by acres of green-plush lawns; and set down on +the lawns are quaint stone-and-shingle bungalows with +roses clambering over them, and near-Tudor mansions +of beam and plaster, and the most beautiful villas of +white stucco with green-tiled roofs, which look as if +they had been brought over entire from Fiesole or the +Lake of Como. Over near the shore is the Polo Club, +which does not confine its activities to polo, as its +name would imply, but, like the Sporting Club of +Cairo, caters to the golfer and the tennis player, and +the racing enthusiast as well. Every afternoon during +the polo season <i>tout le monde</i> goes pouring out to the +Polo Club in motors and carriages, on horseback, on +street-cars, and afoot, to gossip along the side lines and +swagger about in the saddling paddock and cheer +themselves hoarse when eight young gentlemen in +vivid silk shirts and white breeches and tan boots, +and hailing from London or New York or San Francisco +or Honolulu or Calgary, as the case may be, go +streaking down the field in a maelstrom of dust and +colour and waving mallets and flying hoofs. After it is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>[105]</span> +all over and the colours of the winning team have been +hoisted to the top of the flagstaff and the losers have +drunk the health of the victors from a Gargantuan +loving-cup, every one goes piling back to the great +hostelry, whose red-roofed towers and domes and gables +rising above the palm groves form a picture which is +almost Oriental as they silhouette themselves, black, +fantastic, and alluring, against the kaleidoscopic +evening sky.</p> + +<p>There are certain hotels which, because of the surpassing +beauty of their situation or their historic or +literary associations or the traditions connected with +them, have come to be looked upon as institutions, +rather than mere caravansaries, which it is the duty of +every traveller to see, just as he should see Les Invalides +and the Pantheon and the Alcazar, and, if +his purse will permit, to stop at. In such a class I put +Shepheard’s in Cairo, the Hermitage at Monte Carlo, +the Danieli in Venice, the Bristol in Paris, the Lord +Warden at Dover, the Mount Nelson at Cape Town, +Raffles’s at Singapore, the Waldorf-Astoria in New +York, the Mission Inn at Riverside, the Hotel del +Monte at Monterey, and the Hotel del Coronado. It +is by no means new, is the Coronado, nor is it particularly +up-to-date, and from an architectural standpoint +it leaves much to be desired, but it shares with +the other famous hotels I have mentioned that indefinable +something called “atmosphere” and it stands +at one of those crossways where the routes of tourist +travel meet. To find anything to equal the brilliant<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>[106]</span> +scene for which its great lobby is the stage you will +have to go to the east coast of Florida or Egypt or the +Riviera. From New Year’s to Easter its spacious +corridors and broad verandas are thronged with more +interesting types of people than any place I know save +only Monte Carlo. Suppose we sit down for a few +minutes, you and I, and watch the passing show. +There are slim, white-shouldered women whose gowns +bespeak the Rue de la Paix as unmistakably as though +you could read their labels, and other women whose +gowns are just as unmistakably the products of dressmakers +in Schenectady and Sioux City and Terre +Haute. There are well-groomed young men, well-groomed +old men, and overgroomed men of all ages; +men bearing famous names and men whose names are +notorious rather than famous. There are big-game +hunters, polo players, professional gamblers, adventurers, +explorers, novelists, mine owners, bankers, landowners +who reckon their acres by the million, and +cattlemen who count their longhorns by the tens of +thousands. There are English earls, and French marquises, +and German counts; there are women of +Society, of society, and of near-society; men and women +whose features the newspapers and bill-boards have +made as familiar as the faces of Dr. Woodbury and +Mr. Gillette, and, mingling with all the rest, plain, +every-day folk hailing from pretty much everywhere +between Portland, Ore., and Portland, Me., and +whose money it is, when all is said and done, which +makes this sort of thing possible. They come here<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>[107]</span> +for rest, so they take pains to assure you, but they +are never idle. They bathe in the booming breakers +when the people beyond the Sierras are shivering before +their bathtubs; they play golf and tennis as regularly +as they take their meals; they gallop their ponies +madly along the yellow beach in the early morning; +they fish off the coast for tuna and jewfish and barracuda; +they take launches across the bay to see the +flying men swoop and circle above the army aviation +school; they watch the submarines dive and gambol +like giant porpoises in the placid waters of the harbour; +they play auction bridge on the sun-swept verandas +or poker in the seclusion of the smoking-room; +and after dinner they tango and hesitate and one-step +in the big ballroom until the orchestra puts up its instruments +from sheer exhaustion. At Coronado no +one ever lets business interfere with pleasure. If you +want to talk business you had better take the ferryboat +across the bay to San Diego.</p> + +<p>San Diego’s history stretches back into the past +for close on four hundred years. Her harbour was the +first on all that devious coast-line which reaches from +Cape San Lucas to the Straits of Juan de Fuca in which +a white man’s anchor rumbled down and a white man’s +sails were furled. In her soil were planted the first +vine and the first olive tree. The first cross was raised +here, and the first church built, and beneath the palms +which were planted by the <i>padres</i> in the valley that +nestles just back of the hill on which the city sits the +first lessons in Christianity were taught to the primitive<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>[108]</span> +people who inhabited this region when the paleface +came. Here began that remarkable chain of outposts +of the church which Father Junipero Serra and +his indomitable Franciscans stretched northward to +Sonoma, six hundred miles away. And here likewise +began El Camino Real, the King’s Highway, which +linked together the one-and-twenty missions and which +forms to-day the longest continuous highway in the +world, and, without exaggeration, the most beautiful, +the most varied, and the most interesting.</p> + +<p>I don’t know the population of San Diego, because +a census taken yesterday would be much too low to-morrow. +The San Diegans claim that they arrive at +the number of the city’s inhabitants by the simple +method of having the census enumerators meet the +trains to count the people when they get off. For, as +they ingenuously argue, any one who once comes to +San Diego never goes away again, unless it be to hurry +back home and pack his things. In a country where +both population and property values have increased +like guinea-pigs, the growth of San Diego is spoken of +with something akin to awe. In the year that Grant +was elected President, a second-hand furniture dealer +named Alonzo Horton closed his little shop in San +Francisco and with the savings of a lifetime—some say +two hundred and sixty dollars, some eight hundred—in +a belt about his waist, took passage on a steamer down +the Californian coast. With this money he bought, at +twenty-six cents an acre, most of what is now San +Diego. Some of those lots which the shrewd old<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>[109]</span> +furniture dealer thus acquired could not now be bought +for less than a cool half million! Two decades later +came John D. Spreckels, bringing with him the millions +he had amassed in sugar, and gave to San Diego +a street-railway, electric lights, a water-system, one of +the most beautiful theatres on the continent, and a +solid mile of steel-and-concrete office-buildings of +uniform height and harmonious design.</p> + +<p>The people of San Diego are adamantine in their +conviction that theirs is a city of destiny. They assert +that within a single decade the name of San Diego will +be as familiar on maps, and newspapers and bills of +lading as New Orleans or Genoa or Yokohama or Calcutta +or Marseilles. And they have some copper-riveted +facts with which to back up their assertions. +In the first place, so they will tell you, they have the +harbour; sixteen miles long, forty to sixty feet deep, +and protected from storms or a hostile fleet by a four-hundred-foot +wall of rock. When the fortifications +now in course of construction are completed San +Diego will be as safe from attack by sea as though it +were on the Erie Canal. Secondly, San Diego is the +first American port of call for westbound vessels passing +through the Panama Canal, and one of these days, +unless the plans of the Naval Board of Strategy miscarry, +it will become a great fortified coaling station +and naval base, for it is within easy striking distance +of the trans-Pacific lanes of commerce. Thirdly, it is +the logical outlet for the newly developed sections of +the Southwest, the grade between Houston and San<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>[110]</span> +Diego, for example, being the lowest on the continent—and +commerce follows the lines of least resistance. +Fourthly (this sounds like a Presbyterian sermon, +doesn’t it?), San Diego will soon have a rich and +prosperous hinterland, without which all her other +advantages would go for nothing, to supply and to +draw from. Experts on agricultural development have +assured me that the day is coming when the Imperial +Valley, of which San Diego is already the recognised +<i>entrepôt</i>, will support as many inhabitants as the Valley +of the Nile. Nor is this assertion nearly as visionary +as it sounds, for the zone of cultivation in the Nile +country is, remember, only a few miles wide. Beyond +the Imperial Valley lie the constantly spreading +orchards and alfalfa fields which are the result of the +Yuma and Gila River projects. East of Yuma is the +great region, of which Phœnix is the centre, which acquired +prosperity almost in a single night from the +Roosevelt Dam. East of Phœnix again the Casa +Grande irrigation scheme is converting good-for-nothing +desert into good-for-anything loam. Beyond +Casa Grande the great corporation known as Tucson +Farms is redeeming a large area by means of its canals +and ditches, while still farther eastward the titanic dam +at Elephant Butte, which the government is building +to conserve the waters of the Rio Grande, will snatch +from the clutches of the New Mexican desert a region +as large as a New England State. And these are not +paper projects, mind you. Some of them are completed +and in full swing; others are in course of construction,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>[111]</span> +so that by 1920 an almost continuous zone of +irrigated, cultivated, and highly productive land will +stretch from San Diego as far eastward as the Rio +Grande. And, as the San Diegans gleefully point out, +the settlers on these new lands will find San Diego +nearer by from one hundred to two hundred miles than +any other port on the Pacific Coast as a place to ship +their products and to do their shopping. But the people +of San Diego are such notorious boosters that before +swallowing the things they told me I sprinkled +them quite liberally with salt. In fact, I wasn’t really +convinced of the genuineness of San Diego’s prospects +until I happened to meet one evening on a hotel terrace +a member of America’s greatest banking-house—a +house whose credit and prestige are so unquestioned +that its support is a hall-mark of financial worth.</p> + +<p>“What do you think about this San Diego proposition?” +I asked him carelessly, as we sat over our +cigars. “Is it another Egyptian bubble which will +shortly burst?”</p> + +<p>“That was what I thought it was when I came out +here,” he answered, “but since investigating conditions +I have changed my mind. It looks so good to us, in +fact, that we intend to back up our judgment by investing +several millions.”</p> + +<p>So far as attracting visitors is concerned, San +Diego’s most valuable asset is her climate. Though +the southernmost of our Pacific ports and in the same +latitude as Syria and the North African littoral, it +has the most equable climate on the continent, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>[112]</span> +records of the United States Weather Bureau showing +less than one hour a year when the mercury is above +90 or below 32. According to these same official +records, the sun shines on three hundred and fifty-six +days out of the three hundred and sixty-five, so that +rain is literally a nine days’ wonder. San Diego’s +climate is that of Alaska in summer and of Arabia in +winter, and, if you don’t believe it, the San Diegans +will prove it by means of a temperature chart, zigzagging +across which are two lines, one bright red, the other +blue, which denote summer and winter climates circling +the globe and which converge at only one point +on it—San Diego. As a result of these unique climatic +conditions, San Diego, unlike most resort cities, has +two seasons instead of one. The Eastern tourists +have hardly taken their departure in the spring before +the hotels and boarding-houses begin to fill up with +people who have come here to escape the torrid heat +of a Southwestern summer. Many of these summer +visitors are small ranchers from Arizona, New Mexico, +and Utah, and from across the line in Chihuahua and +Sonora, to whom the rates charged at the hotels would +be prohibitive. To accommodate this class of visitors +there has sprung into being on the beach at Coronado +a “tent city.” The “tents” consist for the most part +of one or two room bungalows with palm-thatched +roofs and walls and wooden floors and equipped with +running water, sanitary arrangements, and cooking +appliances. The Coronado Tent City contains nearly +two thousand of these dwellings which can be rented<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>[113]</span> +at absurdly low figures. For those who do not care to +do their own cooking the management has provided +a restaurant where simple but well-cooked meals can +be had at nominal prices; there is a dancing pavilion +for the young people, a casino on whose verandas the +mothers can gossip and sew and at the same time keep +an eye on their children playing on the sand, and a +club house with pool-tables and reading-matter for the +men. The place is kept scrupulously clean, it is thoroughly +policed, hoodlumism is not tolerated, and, +everything considered, it seemed to me a most admirable +and inexpensive solution of the perennial summer-vacation +problem for people of modest means.</p> + +<p class="tb">Because I wanted to see something more than that +narrow coastwise zone which comprises all that the +average winter tourist ever sees of California; because +I wanted to obtain a more intimate knowledge of the +country and its people than comes from a car-window +point of view; because I wanted to penetrate into +those portions of the back country still undisturbed +by the locomotive’s raucous shriek and eat at quaint +inns and sleep in ranch-houses and stop when and +where I pleased to converse with all manner of interesting +people, I decided to do my travelling by motor-car. +And so, on a winter’s sunny morning, when the +flower vendors in the plaza of San Diego were selling +roses at ten cents a bunch and the unfortunates who +dwelt beyond the Sierras, rim were begging their +janitors for goodness’ sake to turn on more steam, I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>[114]</span> +turned the nose of my car northward and stepped on +her tail, and with a rush and roar we were off on a +journey which was to end only at the borders of Alaska. +As, with engines purring sweet music, the car breasted +the summit of the Linda Vista grade our breath was +almost taken away by the startling grandeur of the +panorama which suddenly unrolled itself before us. +At our backs rose the mountains of Mexico, purple, +mysterious, forbidding, grim. Spread below us, like +a map in bas-relief, lay the orchard-covered plains of +California; to the left the Pacific heaved lazily beneath +the sun; to the right the snow-crowned Cuyamacas +swept grandly up to meet the sky, and before +us the beckoning yellow road stretched away ... +away ... away.</p> + +<p>I have never been able to resist the summons of +the open road. I always want to find out what is at +the other end. It goes somewhere, you see, and I +always have the feeling that, far off in the distance, +where it swerves suddenly behind a wood or disappears +in the depths of a rock-walled cañon or drops out of +sight quite unexpectedly behind a hill, there is something +mysterious and magical waiting to be found. +About the road there is something primitive and +imperishable. Did it ever occur to you that it has +been the greatest factor in the making of history, in +the spread of Christianity, in the march of progress? +Some one has said, and truly, that the rate and direction +of human progress has always been determined +by the roads of a people. For a time the marvel of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>[115]</span> +modern inventions caused the road to be forgotten. +The steamship sailed majestically away in contempt +of the road upon the shore and the locomotive sounded +its jeering screech at every crossing along its right +of way. But still the road stayed on. But now the +miracle of the motor-car has brought the road into +its own again and started me ajourneying in the +latest product of twentieth-century civilisation, with +the strength of threescore horses beneath its throbbing +hood, up that historic highway which has been +travelled in turn by Don Vasquez del Coronado and +his steel-clad men-at-arms, by Padre Serra in his +sandals and woollen robe, by Jedediah Smith, the first +American to find his way across the ranges, by Frémont +the Pathfinder, by the Argonauts, by Spanish <i>caballeros</i> +and Mexican <i>vaqueros</i> and American pioneers, by +priests afoot and soldiers on horseback and peasants +on the backs of patient burros, by lumbering ox-carts +and white-topped prairie-schooners and six-horse Concord +stages—and now by automobiles. In El Camino +Real is epitomised the history and romance of the +West. It is to western America what the Via Appia +was to Rome, the Great North Road to England. +It has been in turn a trail of torture, a course of conquest, +a road of religion, a route to riches, a path of +progress, a highway to happiness. He who can traverse +it with no thought for anything save the number +of miles which his indicator shows and for the comforts +of the hotel ahead; who is so lacking in imagination +that he cannot see the countless phantom shadows<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>[116]</span> +who charge it with their unseen presence; who is incapable +of appreciating that in it are all the panorama +and procession of the West, had much better stay at +home. The only thing that such a person would understand +would be a danger-signal or a traffic policeman’s +club.</p> + +<p>I am convinced that if the several thousand +Americans who go on annual motor trips through +Europe, either taking their cars with them or hiring +them on the other side, could only be made to realise +that on the edge of the Western ocean they can find +roads as smooth and well built as the English highways +or the <i>routes nationales</i> of France, and mountains +as high and sublimely beautiful as the Alps or the +Pyrenees, and scenery more varied and lovely than is +to be found between Christiania and Capri, and vegetation +as luxuriant and hotels more luxurious than on +the Côte d’Azur, and a milder, sunnier, more equable +climate than anywhere else on the globe, they would +come pouring out in such numbers that there wouldn’t +be garages enough to hold their cars. In 1913 the +legislature of California voted eighteen millions of +dollars for the improvement of the roads, and that great +sum is being so judiciously expended in conjunction +with the appropriations made by the other coast states +that by early in 1915 a motorist can start from the +Mexican border and drive northward to Vancouver—a +distance considerably greater than from Cherbourg to +Constantinople—with as good a road as any one could +ask for beneath his tires all the way.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>[117]</span></p> + +<p>It is very close to one hundred and forty miles +from San Diego to Riverside if you take the route +which passes the rambling, red-tiled, adobe ranch-house +famous as the home of <i>Ramona</i>; dips down into +Mission Valley, where from behind its screen of palms +and eucalyptus peers the crumbling and dilapidated +façade of the first of the Californian missions; swirls +through La Jolla with its enchanted ocean caverns; +climbs upward in long sweeps and zigzags through the +live-oak groves behind Del Mar; pauses for a moment +at Oceanside for a farewell look at the lazy turquoise +sea, and then suddenly swings inland past Mission +San Luis Rey and the mission chapel of Pala and the +Lake of Elsinore. That is the route that we took and, +though it is not the shortest, it is incomparably the +most beautiful and the most interesting. We found +by experience that one hundred and forty miles is +about as long a day’s run as one can make with comfort +and still permit of ample time for meals and for +leisurely pauses at places of interest along the way. +Once, in the French Midi, I motored with a friend +who had chartered a car by the month with the agreement +that he was to be permitted to run four hundred +kilometres a day. It mattered not at all how fascinating +or historically interesting was the region we were +traversing, we must needs tear through it as though +the devil were at our wheels. We couldn’t stop anywhere, +my host explained, because if we did he wouldn’t +be able to get the full allowance of mileage to which he +was entitled. Some day, however, I’m going through<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>[118]</span> +that same country again and see the things I missed. +Next time I think that I shall go on a bicycle. With +highways as smooth as the promenade-deck of an +ocean liner it is a temptation to burn up the road, of +course, particularly if your car has plenty of power +and your driver knows how to keep his wits about +him. But that sort of thing, especially in a country +which has so many sights worth seeing as California, +smacks altogether too much of those impossible persons +who boast of having “done” the Louvre or the +Pitti in an hour. Half the pleasure of motoring, to my +way of thinking, is in being able to stop when and +where you please—<i>and stopping</i>.</p> + +<p>Between San Diego and Oceanside the road hugs +the coast as though it were a long-lost brother. It is +wide and smooth and for long stretches led through +acres and acres of yellow mustard. This, with the +vivid blue of the sea on one side and the emerald green +of the wooded hillsides on the other, made the country +we were traversing resemble the flag of some Central +American republic. I think that the most beautiful +of the little coast towns through which the road winds +is Del Mar, perched high on a cypress-covered hill +looking westward to Cathay. This is the home of the +Torrey pine, which is found nowhere else in the world. +In the springtime the mesas above the sea are all +aflame with yellow dahlias and the hillsides at the back +are as gay with wild flowers as a woman’s Easter bonnet. +Del Mar is an interesting example of the rehabilitation +of a down-and-out town. A few years ago it was little<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[119]</span> +more than a straggling, grass-grown street lined with +decrepit, weather-beaten houses. A far-sighted corporation +discovered the ramshackle little hamlet, +bought it, subdivided it, laid out miles of contour +drives and a golf course, and built a little gem of a +hostelry, modelled and named after the inn at Stratford-on-Avon, +on the hill above the sea. Now the +place is awake, animated, prosperous. Bathers dot +its ten-mile crescent of silver sand; artists pitch their +easels beneath the shadow of the friendly live-oaks; on +the flower-carpeted hill slopes have sprung up the +villas and bungalows of the rich. A few miles farther +up the coast you can lunch beneath the vine-hung +pergolas of the quaint Miramar at Oceanside, nor +does it require an elastic imagination to pretend that +the hills behind, grey-green with olive groves, are those +of Amalfi and that the lazy, sun-kissed sea below you +is the Mediterranean instead of the Pacific.</p> + +<p>Four miles inland from Oceanside, in a swale +between low hills, stands all that is left of the Mission +of San Luis, Rey de Francia, which, as its name denotes, +is dedicated to Saint Louis, King of France. +Begun when Washington was President of the United +States and Alta California was still a province of New +Spain, completed when the nineteenth century was +but a two-year-old, and secularised by the Mexican +authorities after the expulsion of the Spaniards in +1834, the historic mission has once again passed into +the hands of the Franciscan Order which built it and +is now a training-school for priests who wish to carry<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>[120]</span> +the cross into foreign lands. The ruins of the mission—which, +thanks to the indefatigable efforts of the priest +in charge, are being restored to a semblance of their +original condition as fast as he is able to raise the +money—are among the most picturesque in California. +We stopped there on a golden afternoon, when the +sunlight, sifted and softened by the interlacing branches +of the ancient olive trees, cast a veil of yellow radiance +upon the crumbling, weather-worn façade and filtered +through the arches of those cloistered corridors where +the cowled and cassocked brethren of Saint Francis were +wont to pace up and down in silent meditation, telling +their beads and muttering their prayers.</p> + +<p>Nestling in a hollow of the hills, twenty miles +northeast of San Luis Rey, over a road which is comparatively +little travelled and only indifferently smooth, +is the <i>asistencia</i> or mission chapel of San Antonio de +Pala. Even though it were not on the road to Riverside, +it would be well worth going out of one’s way to +see because of its picturesque <i>campanario</i>, with a +cactus sprouting from its top, and the adjacent Indian +village with its curious burial-ground. The little town, +which centres, of course, about the chapel, the agency, +and the trader’s, stands on the banks of the San Luis +Rey River, with high mountains rising abruptly all +around. Here, in sheet-iron huts provided by a paternal +government and brought bodily from the East and set +up in this secluded valley, dwell all that is left of the +Palatingwa tribe—a living refutation of our boast +that we have given a square deal to the Indian. Once<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>[121]</span> +each year the Palatingwas are visited by their friends +of neighbouring tribes, and for a brief time the mountain +valley resounds to the barbaric clamour of the tom-toms +and to the plaintive, pagan chants which were +heard in this land before the paleface came. The +mission chapel, after standing empty for many years, +once more has a priest, and at sunset the bell in the +ancient campanile sends its mellow summons booming +across the surrounding olive groves and the copper-coloured +villagers, just as did their fathers in Padre +Serra’s time, come trooping in for evening prayer.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus19" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus19.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><table><tr> + <td class="td2"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by Avery Edwin Field.</i></p></td> + <td class="td2"><p class="attr"><i>From a photograph by Avery Edwin Field.</i></p></td> + </tr></table> + <p>NOT IN CATALONIA BUT IN CALIFORNIA.</p> + <p>“A great hotel which combines the architectural features of the Californian + missions—cloisters, patios, brick-paved corridors, bell-hung campaniles, + ivy-covered buttresses—with an Old World atmosphere and charm.”</p> +</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>But of all the California missions, from San Diego +in the south to Sonoma in the north, the one I like the +best is the Mission Miller at Riverside—and any one +who has ever stopped there will unhesitatingly agree +with me. Its real name, you must understand, is the +Mission Inn, and there is no hostelry like it anywhere +else in the world. At least I, who am tolerably familiar +with the hotels of five-score countries, know of none. +In it Frank Miller, the Master of the Inn, as he loves to +be called, has succeeded in commercialising romance +to an extraordinary degree. He might be said, indeed, +to have taken the cent from sentiment. In other +words, he has built a great hotel which combines the +architectural features of the most interesting of the +Californian missions—cloisters, patios, quadrangles, +brick-paved corridors, bell-hung campaniles, ivy-covered +buttresses, slender date-palms with flaming macaws +screeching in them—with an Old World atmosphere +and charm, and in such a setting he dispenses the same<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>[122]</span> +genial and personal hospitality which was a characteristic +of the Spanish <i>padres</i> in the days when the +travellers along El Camino Real depended on the +missions for food and shelter.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>[123]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="V">V<br> +<span class="smaller">WHERE GOLD GROWS ON TREES</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>[124]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Dost thou know that sweet land where the orange flowers grow?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where the fruits are like gold and the red roses blow?”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>[125]</span></p> + +<h3>V<br> +<span class="smaller">WHERE GOLD GROWS ON TREES</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>It was in the heyday of the Second Empire. The +French army was at its autumn manœuvres and the +country round about Rheims was aswarm with troopers +in brass helmets and infantry in baggy red breeches. +Louis Napoleon was directing the operations in person. +Riding one day through a vineyard at the head of a +brigade, he suddenly pulled up his horse and turned +in his saddle.</p> + +<p>“Halt!” he ordered. “Column right into line! +Attention! Present ... arms!”</p> + +<p>“But who are you saluting, sire?” inquired one +of his generals in astonishment, spurring alongside.</p> + +<p>“The grapes, <i>mon général</i>,” replied the Emperor; +“for do they not represent the wealth and prosperity +of France?”</p> + +<p class="tb">It was the astonishing prosperity of the orange +belt which brought the incident to mind. For an +entire morning we had been motoring among the +orange groves which make of Riverside an island in an +emerald sea. The endless orchards whose shiny-leaved +trees drooped under their burden of pumpkin-coloured +fruit; the chalk-white villas and the blossom-smothered +bungalows of which we caught fleeting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>[126]</span> +glimpses between the ordered rows; the oiled roads, +so smooth and level that no child could look on them +without longing for roller-skates; the motor-cars +standing at almost every doorstep—all these things +spelled prosperity in capital letters.</p> + +<p>“It seems to me,” I remarked to the gentleman +who was acting as our guide (these same orange groves +had made him a millionaire in less than a decade), +“that it would not be unbefitting if the people of +Riverside followed the example of Louis Napoleon +when he saluted the grapes”; and I told him the story +of the Emperor in the vineyard.</p> + +<p>“You are quite right,” said he. “Would you +mind stopping the car?” and, standing in the tonneau +very erect and soldierly, he lifted his hat.</p> + +<p>“My Lady Citrona,” he said gravely, “I have the +honour to salute you, for it is to you that the prosperity +of southern California is chiefly due.”</p> + +<p class="tb">What its harbour has done for San Diego, what its +climate has done for Santa Barbara, its oranges have +done for Riverside. Thirty years ago you could not +have found it on the map. To-day it is the richest +community <i>per caput</i>—which is the Latin for inhabitant—between +the ice-floes of the Arctic and the Gatun +Dam. At least that is what Mr. Bradstreet—the +gentleman, you know, who publishes the large green +volume which tells you whether the people you meet are +worth cultivating—says, and he ought to know what +he is talking about. Though it can boast few if any<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>[127]</span> +“show-places” such as are proudly pointed out to the +open-mouthed tourist in Pasadena and Santa Barbara, +it is a pleasant place in which to dwell, is this happy, +sunny, easy-going capital of the citrus kingdom. It +is as substantial-looking as a retired banker; it is as +spick and span as a ward in a hospital; it is as satisfying +as a certified cheque—and, incidentally, it is as +dry as the desert of Sahara. You are regarded with +suspicion if you are overheard asking the druggist for +alcohol for a spirit-lamp. It is, moreover, the only +place I know that has foiled the exaggeratory tendencies +of the picture post-card makers. Its oranges +are so glaringly yellow, its trees so vividly green, its +poinsettias so flamingly red, its snow-topped mountains +so snowily white, its skies so bright a blue that the post-card +artists have had to be truthful in spite of themselves.</p> + +<p>I think that the spirit of Riverside is epitomised +by two great wrought-iron baskets which flank the +entrance to the dining-room of its famous hostelry, the +Mission Inn. One of them is filled with oranges, the +other with flowers. And you are expected to help yourself; +not merely to take one as a souvenir, you understand, +but to fill your pockets, fill your arms. “That’s +what they’re there for,” the Master of the Inn will tell +you. That little touch does more than anything else +to make you feel that southern California really is a +land of fruit and flowers and that they are not hidden +behind the garden walls of the rich but can be enjoyed +by everyone. It goes far toward counteracting the unfavourable<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>[128]</span> +impression a stranger receives in a certain +ornate hotel in Los Angeles where he is charged forty +cents for a sliced orange!</p> + +<p>Ciceroned by the orange millionaire, we motored +up a zigzag boulevard, with many horseshoe bends +and hairpin turns, to the summit of Mount Rubidoux, +a domesticated and highly landscaped mountainette +within the city limits. Moses and his footsore Israelites, +looking down upon the Promised Land, could +have seen nothing fairer than the view which greeted +us on that winter’s Sunday morning. I doubt if there +has been anything more peacefully enchanting than a +Sunday morning in southern California in the orange +season since a “To Let” sign was nailed to the gates +of the Garden of Eden. It suggests, without in any +way resembling, such a number of things: a stained-glass +window in a church, for example; an Easter +wedding; Italy in the springtime ... but perhaps +you don’t grasp just what I mean.</p> + +<p>From Rubidoux’s rocky base the furrowed orange +groves, looking exactly like quilted comforters of +bright-green silk, stretch away, away, until they meet +just such a yellow arid desert as Riverside used to be +before the water came, and the desert sweeps up to +meet tawny foot-hills, and the foot-hills blend into +amethystine mountain ranges and these rise into snowy +peaks which gleam and sparkle against a sapphire sky. +And from the orange groves rises that same subtle, +intoxicating fragrance (for you know, no doubt, that +orange-trees bear blossoms and fruit at the same time)<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>[129]</span> +that you get when the organist strikes up the march +from “Lohengrin” and the bride floats up the aisle. +The significant thing about it all, however, is not the +surpassing beauty and extraordinary luxuriance of the +vegetation, but the fact that there is any vegetation +here at all. No longer ago than when women wore +bustles this region was a second cousin to the Sahara, +dry as a treatise on mathematics, dusty as a country +pike on circus day, but which now, thanks to the +faith, patience, energy, and courage of a handful of +horticulturists, has been transformed into a land which +is a cross between a back-drop at a theatre and a +fruit-store window.</p> + +<p class="tb">Once each year, toward the close of the fasting +month of Ramazan, the Arabs of the Sahara make a pilgrimage +to a spot in the desert near Biskra, in southern +Algeria. From a thousand miles around they come—by +horse and by camel and on the backs of asses—for +the sake of a prayer in the yellow desert at break of +day. This “Great Prayer,” as it is called, is one of +the most impressive ceremonies that I have ever witnessed, +and I little thought that I should ever see its +like again—certainly not in my own land and among +my own people. Once each year the people of Riverside +and the surrounding country also make a pilgrimage. +They set out in the darkness of early Easter +morning, afoot, ahorseback, in carriages, and in +panting motor-cars, and assemble on the summit of +Mount Rubidoux in the first faint light of dawn. They<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130"></a>[130]</span> +group themselves, fittingly enough, about the cross +which has been erected in memory of Padre Junipero +Serra, that indomitable friar who first brought Christianity +to the Californias, and who, on his weary +journeys between the missions which he founded, not +infrequently spread his blankets for the night at the +foot of this same hill. Last year upward of six thousand +people gathered under the shadow of the Serra cross +to greet the Easter morn. As sunrise approached, a +group of girls from the Indian School, standing on a +rocky eminence, sang “He Is Risen,” and then, as a +red glow in the east heralded the coming of the sun, +the sweet, clear notes of a cornet rang out upon the +morning air in the splendid bars of “The Holy City.” +Just as the last notes died away a spark of light—brighter +than the arc-lamps which still glared in the +streets of the city below—appeared above the San +Bernardino’s topmost rim and a moment later the +full orb of the sun burst forth in all its dazzling glory, +turning the purple mountains into peaks of glowing +amethyst and the sombre valleys into emerald islands +swimming in a sea of lavender haze. “Lord, Thou +hast been my dwelling-place in all generations.... I +will lift up mine eyes to the hills from whence cometh +my help,” chanted the people in solemn unison. And +then Dr. Henry van Dyke, fittingly garbed in a Norfolk +jacket and knickerbockers, with a mammoth +boulder for a pulpit, read his “God of the Open Air.” +With the Amen of the benediction there ended the +most significant and impressive service that I have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>[131]</span> +ever heard under the open sky and one which sharply +refutes the frequent assertion that America is lacking +in those quaint ceremonies and picturesque observances +which make Europe so attractive to the traveller.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus20" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus20.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>A MODERN VERSION OF THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT.</p> + <p>The Easter sunrise service on Mount Rubidoux, near Riverside, “sharply + refutes the frequent assertion that America is lacking in those quaint + ceremonies and picturesque observances which make Europe so attractive + to the traveller.”</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>It is threescore miles from Riverside to Pasadena, +provided you go via Redlands, Smiley Heights, and +San Bernardino, and it is flowers and fruit-trees all +the way. Just as every visitor to London asks to be +directed to Kew Gardens, so every visitor to the orange +belt asks to be shown Smiley Heights. Its late owner +was a hotel proprietor of national fame who amassed +a fortune by running his great summer hostelries at +Lake Mohonk, N. Y., in conformance with the discipline +of the Methodist Church, among the rules which +the guests are required to observe being one which +states that “visitors are not expected to arrive or +depart on the Sabbath.” Smiley Heights is a remarkable +object-lesson in the horticultural miracles which +can be performed in California with water and patience. +When bought by Mr. Smiley it was a barren, bone-dry +mesa, whose entire six hundred acres did not have +sufficient vegetation to support a goat, but which, by +the lavish use of water, and fertilisers, and the employment +of a small army of landscape architects and +gardeners, has been transformed into a beauty-spot +which is worth using several gallons of gasoline to see. +In Cañon’s Crest, to give the place the name bestowed +by its owner, is epitomised the story of all southern +California, for on every side of this semitropic garden<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>[132]</span> +of pines, palms, peppers, oranges, olives, lemons, figs, +acacias, bamboos, deodars, and roses, roses, roses, +stretches the sage-brush-covered desert from which it +was snatched and to which, were it deprived of care +and water, it would quickly return. If you will look +from the right-hand window of your north-bound train, +just before it reaches Redlands, you can see it for yourself: +a flower-smothered, tree-covered table-land rising +abruptly from an arid plain.</p> + +<p>I wonder if other motorists get as much enjoyment +from the signs along the way as I do. The notices +along the Californian roads struck me as being +more original and amusing than any that I had ever +seen. Most of them were worded with an after-you-my-dear-Alphonse +politeness which made acquiescence +with their courteous requests a pleasure, though occasionally +we were confronted with a warning couched +in such threatening terms that it seemed to shake a +metaphorical fist in our faces. Who, I ask you, would +not cheerfully slow down to lawful speed in the face +of the stereotyped request which is used on the roads +between Riverside and Pasadena: “Speed limit thirty +miles an hour—a reasonable compliance with this +request will be deeply appreciated”? Another time, +however, as we were humming along one of those +stretches of oiled delight which make the speedometer +needle flutter like a lover’s heart, we were greeted, as +we swept into the outskirts of some Orangeburg or +Citronville, by a great brusque placard which menaced +us in staring black letters with the threat: “Fifty dollars<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>[133]</span> +fine for exceeding the speed limit.” As a result we +crept through the town as sedately as though we were +following a hearse, which was, I suppose, the very effect +the city fathers aimed to produce, but as we left the +limits of the municipality our resentment was dispelled +by a sign so placed as to catch the eye of the departing +motorist. It read: “So long, friend! Come again.”</p> + +<p>There is one word that you should never, <i>never</i> +mention in the orange belt and that is—frost. That +severe frosts are few and far between is perfectly true, +as is attested by the fact that the road from Riverside +to Pasadena runs through a vast forest of treasure-bearing +trees. That there is another and less joyous +side to the business of raising breakfast-table fruit +was brought sharply home to me, however, by noting +that the orchards I passed were dotted with hundreds, +yes, thousands, of little cylindrical oil-stoves—the +kind that they use in New England farmhouses to +heat the bedroom enough to take a bath in on Sunday +mornings. When the weather observer in Los Angeles +flashes to the orange-growing centres a warning of an +impending frost, the countryside turns out <i>en masse</i> as +though to repel an invader, and soon the groves are +dotted with myriad pin-points of flame as the orchardists +wage their desperate battle with the cold, with +stoves, braziers, smudge-pots, and bonfires for their +weapons. Though at long intervals a frost comes +which does wide-spread and incalculable damage, as +in 1913, that they <i>are</i> infrequent is best proved by the +fact that automobile, phonograph, and encyclopedia<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>[134]</span> +salesmen find their most profitable markets in the +orange belt.</p> + +<p>The cultivation of citrus fruits has been so systematised +of recent years that nowadays, if one is to +believe the alluringly worded prospectuses issued by +the concerns engaged in selling citrus lands, all the +owner of an orange grove has to do is to sit in a rocking-chair +on his veranda, watch his trees grow and his +fruit ripen, have it picked, packed, and marketed by +proxy, and pocket the money which comes rolling in. +According to the specious arguments of the realty +dealers, it is as simple as taking candy from children. +You simply can’t lose. According to them, it works +out something after this fashion. Prof. Nathaniel +Nutt, principal of a school at Skaneateles, N.Y., decides +that when his teaching days are over he would like +to spend his carpet-slipper years on an orange grove +under California’s sunny skies. Lured by the glowing +advertisements, he invests in ten acres of land planted +to young trees and piped for water. The price is five +hundred dollars an acre, of which he pays one fifth +down and the balance in four annual instalments. +By the time that his grove is old enough to bear, +therefore, it will be fully paid for. In its fifth year—according +to the dealer, at least—Mr. Nutt’s grove +will yield him fruit to the value of five hundred dollars +an acre, so that it will pay for itself the very first year +after it comes into bearing. Moreover, during the five +years that must of necessity intervene before the +trees can be expected to droop under their golden crop,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[135]</span> +there is no real necessity for Mr. Nutt’s coming to +California, for, by the payment of a purely nominal +sum, he can have his grove cultivated, irrigated, and +cared for under the direction of expert horticulturists +while he continues to teach the Skaneateles youngsters +their three R’s. As soon as the grove comes into +bearing he will be notified, whereupon he will send in +his resignation to the School Board, pack his grip, +buy a ticket to California, and settle down as an orange +grower with an assured income of five thousand dollars +a year (ten acres multiplied by five hundred dollars, +you see) for life. Simple, isn’t it? But let us suppose, +just for the sake of argument, that about the time +that Prof. Nutt’s trees come into bearing a devastating +frost comes along and in a single night wipes his orchard +out. Is it likely that he will be able to stand the +financial strain of setting out another grove and irrigating +it and fertilising it and caring for it for another +five years? All of which goes to prove that orange growing +is no business for people of limited means. Like +speculating in Wall Street, it is an occupation which +should only be followed by those who have sufficient +resources to tide them over serious reverses and long +periods of waiting. For such as those, however, there +is no denying that gold grows on orange-trees.</p> + +<p>Citrus growing, as I have already remarked, has +been greatly simplified of late by the organisation of +growers’ unions. These unions are a result of the +long and bitter struggle the citrus growers have waged +to oust the intrenched middlemen and speculators.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>[136]</span> +A few years ago the growers found themselves facing +the alternatives of organisation or bankruptcy. They +chose the former. The first to organise were the +Riverside growers, who built a common packing-house, +put a general manager in charge, and sent their fruit +to it to be inspected, packed, sold, and shipped. So +successful did the experiment prove that other districts +soon followed Riverside’s example, until to-day there +is no orange-growing section in the State that does +not have its own packing-house. But the growers did +not stop there. They soon found that, if they were to +get the top-of-the-market prices for their fruit, some +system must be devised for getting market quotations +at the eleventh hour and fifty-ninth minute and then +diverting their shipments to the highest market. Here +is an example: a car-load of oranges from Redlands +might arrive in the Milwaukee freight yards the same +day as a car-load from San Bernardino, in which case +the Milwaukee market would be glutted, while in Saint +Paul there might be a shortage of the golden fruit. +To meet this necessity the local packing-houses grouped +themselves together in shipping exchanges, of which +there are now in the neighbourhood of a hundred and +thirty, handling sixty per cent of California’s citrus +crop. But, as the industry grew, still another organisation +was needed: a big central fruit exchange to handle +problems of transportation, to gather information about +the markets, and to supply daily quotations, and legal, +technical, and scientific information. Thus there came +into being the big central exchange, as a result of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>[137]</span> +which the growers have been enabled to market their +own fruit regardless of the speculators. This central +exchange keeps a salaried agent on every important +market in the country. No commissions and no +dividends are paid; there is no profit feature whatsoever. +Against each box of fruit passing through +the exchange is assessed the exact expense of handling, +and the entire proceeds, less only this expense, are +remitted to the grower. The local packing-house +unions exist solely to pick, pack, and ship; the district +unions exist solely to handle the local problems +of the association; the central union exists for the +purpose of gathering and supplying quotations and +other information. Each of these unions is duly incorporated +and has a board of directors, the growers +electing the directors of the district union and these +in turn electing the directors of the central union. +Each union is a pure democracy—one vote a man, +independent of his financial status or his acreage.</p> + +<p>Few outsiders appreciate the enormous proportions +to which California’s citrus industry has grown. +Three of every four oranges grown in the United +States come from Californian groves, which yield a +fifth of the entire citrus production of the world. The +orange and lemon groves of California now amount to +approximately a quarter of a million acres and are +increasing at the rate of twenty-five thousand acres +a year, for, as it takes a grove five years to come into +bearing and nine years to reach maturity, population +multiplies faster than the groves can grow. Notwithstanding<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>[138]</span> +this formidable array of facts and figures, +it is open to grave doubt whether an orange grove is a +safe investment for a person of modest means. Though +a great deal of money has unquestionably been made in +citrus growing, there is no denying the fact that it is +a good deal of a gamble. One of the largest and most +successful growers in California, a pioneer in the industry, +said to me not long ago: “If the best friend I +have in the world sent me a cheque for ten thousand +dollars and asked me to invest it for him in citrus +property, I would send it back to him unless I knew that +there was plenty of money where that came from. I +have made money in orange growing, it is true, but +only because there has never been a time that I have not +had ample resources to fall back on.” And here is +the other side of the shield. We stopped for lunch one +day at the rose-covered bungalow of a young widow +whose husband had died a few years before, leaving +her with two small children and twenty acres of oranges.</p> + +<p>“These twenty acres,” she told me, as we sat on +the terrace over the coffee, “pay for the maintenance +of this house, for the education of my two youngsters, +for the up-keep of my little motor-car, and for my +annual trips back East. And I don’t have to economise +by wearing cotton stockings, either.”</p> + +<p>I have shown you both sides of the orange question; +you can decide it for yourself.</p> + +<p class="tb">Some one with a poetic fancy and an imagination +that worked overtime has asserted that Pasadena<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>[139]</span> +means “the Pass to Eden.” Though this is, to say the +least, a decidedly free translation, it is, nevertheless, +a peculiarly fitting one, for I doubt if there is any spot +on earth where Adam and Eve would feel more at +home than in the enchanting region of oak-studded +foot-hills and poppy-carpeted valleys to which Pasadena +is the gateway. What Cannes and Mentone +and Nice are to Europe, Pasadena is to America: a +place where the fortunate ones who can afford it can +idle away their winters amid the same luxurious surroundings +and under the same <i>cielo sereno</i> that they +would find on the Côte d’Azur. Enclosed on three +sides by a mountain wall which effectually protects it +from the cold land winds, Pasadena nestles amid its +subtropical gardens on the level floor of the San Gabriel +Valley, ten miles from <i>La Puebla de Nuestra +Señora la Reina de Los Angeles</i>, to give the second city +of California its full name. It is said, by the way, +that the people of Los Angeles have twenty-three +distinct ways of pronouncing the name of their city. +Mr. Charles Lummis, the author, who is a recognised +authority on the Southwest, has attempted to secure +a correct and uniform pronunciation of the city’s +name by distributing among his friends the following:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“My Lady would remind you, please,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her name is not ‘Lost Angy Lees’</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nor Angy anything whatever.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">She trusts her friend will be so clever</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To share her fit historic pride,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The <i>g</i> should not be jellified;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Long <i>o</i>, <i>g</i> hard and rhyme with ‘yes’</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And all about Los Angeles.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>[140]</span></p> +<p>It is a Spotless Town in real life, is Pasadena. It +is as methodically laid out as a Nuremburg toy village; +it is as immaculate as a new pair of white kid gloves. +At the height of the season, which begins immediately +after New York’s tin-horn-and-champagne debauch +on New-Year’s Eve and lasts until Fifth Avenue is +ablaze with Easter millinery, you can find more private +cars side-tracked in Pasadena railway yards and more +high-powered automobiles on its boulevards than at +any pleasure resort in the world. It is much frequented +by the less spectacular class of millionaires, to whom +the frivolity of the Palm Beach life does not appeal, +and more than once I have seen on the terrace of the +Hotel Green enough men whose names are household +words to form a quorum of the board of directors of +the Steel Trust. Though dedicated to pleasure, Pasadena +has an extraordinary number of large and beautiful +churches, and, as their pulpits are frequently occupied +by divines of international reputation, they +are generally filled to the doors. In fact, I have +counted upward of three hundred motor-cars parked +in front of two fashionable churches in Colorado Street.</p> + +<p>Just as the Eastern visitor to San Francisco is +invariably shown three “sights”—Chinatown, Golden +Gate Park, and the Cliff House, so, when he goes to +Pasadena, he is shown Orange Grove Avenue, taken +through the Busch Gardens, and hauled up Mount +Lowe. Orange Grove Avenue is a mile-long, hundred-foot-wide +stretch of asphalt bordered throughout its +entire length by palms, pepper-trees, and plutocrats.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>[141]</span> +We drove along it quite slowly, taking a resident with +us to point out the houses and retail any odds and ends +of gossip about the people who lived in them, like the +lecturers on the rubberneck coaches. It was almost as +interesting as reading the advertising pages in the +magazines, for most of the names he mentioned were +familiar ones: we had seen them hundreds of times on +soap and tooth-powder and ham and corsets and +safety-razors. Then we motored over to the Busch +Gardens, which were the hobby of the late St. Louis +brewer and on which he lavished the profits of goodness +knows how many kegs of beer. Though exceedingly +beautiful in spots, they are too much of a horticultural +<i>pousse-café</i> to be wholly satisfying. Roses +and orchids and pansies and morning-glories and +geraniums and asters are exquisite by themselves, but +they don’t look particularly well crowded into the +same vase. That is the trouble with the Busch Gardens. +The profusion of subtropical vegetation is +characteristically Californian; the sweeping greensward, +overshadowed by gnarled and hoary live-oaks, +recalls the manor parks of England; the prim, clipped +hedges and the <i>jets d’eau</i> suggest Versailles; the +gravelled promenades, bordered by marble seats and +rows of stately cypress, bear the unmistakable stamp +of Italy; while the cast-iron dogs and deer and gnomes +which are scattered about in the most unexpected +places could have come from nowhere on earth save +the Rhineland.</p> + +<p>The climax of a stay in Pasadena is the trip up<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>[142]</span> +Mount Lowe. You can no more escape it and preserve +your self-respect than you can go to Lucerne and escape +going up the Rigi. From Rubio Cañon, near the city +limits, a cable incline which in Switzerland would be +called a funicular, climbs up the mountainside at a +perfectly appalling grade. All the way up you speculate +as to what would happen if the cable <i>should</i> break. +When two thirds of the way to the summit the passengers +are transferred to an electric car which, alternately +clinging like a spider to the mountain’s precipitous +face or creeping across giddy cañons by means of cobweb +bridges, twists and turns its hair-raising way +upward to the Alpine Tavern, a mile above the level +of the valley floor. The far-flung orange groves with +the sun shining upon them, the white villas of Pasadena +and Altadena peeping coquettishly from amid +the live-oaks, the rounded, moleskin-coloured foot-hills +splotched with yellow poppies, the double rows of +blue-grey eucalyptus (in Australia they call them blue-gums) +and the white highways which run between +them, in the distance the towering sky-line of Los +Angeles beneath its pall of smoke, and, farther still, +the islands of San Clemente and Santa Catalina rising, +violet and alluring, from the sun-flecked sea, combine +to form a picture the Great Artist has but rarely +equalled.</p> + +<p>Different people, different tastes. Those who prefer +the whoop-and-hurrah of popular seaside resorts can +gratify their tastes to the limit at any one of the long +and beautiful beaches—Long Beach, Redondo, Santa<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>[143]</span> +Monica, Venice—which adjoin Los Angeles. Here the +amusements which await the visitor are limited only +by his pocketbook and his endurance. The scenes +along this coast of joy in summer beggar description. +The splendid sands are alive with bathers; the promenades, +lined with all the peripatetic shows of a popular +seaside resort, swarm with good-natured, jostling, +happy-go-lucky crowds. There is no rowdyism, as is +the rule rather than the exception at similar resorts in +the East, and there is amazingly little vulgarity, the +boisterous element which prevails, say, at Coney +Island, being totally lacking, this being due, no doubt, +to the fact that several of the beaches have “gone dry.” +At Long Beach the really beautiful Virginia, than which +there are not half a dozen finer seaside hotels in the +United States, provides accommodation for those who +wish to combine the hurly-burly of Manhattan Beach +with the more sedate pleasures of Marblehead or +Narragansett. At Redondo you can risk your neck +on the largest scenic railway in the world (they called +them roller-coasters when I was a boy), or you can +bathe in the largest indoor swimming pool in the +world, or you can go down on the beach and disport +yourself in the surf of the largest ocean in the world, +though it is only fair to add that this last is not the +exclusive property of Redondo. At Santa Monica +you can sit on a terrace overlooking the sea and eat +fried sand-dabs—a fish for which this portion of the +Californian littoral is famous and which is as delicious +as the pompano of New Orleans. At Venice you can<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>[144]</span> +lean back in a gondola, while a gentleman of Italian +extraction in white ducks and a red sash pilots you +through a series of lagoons and canals, and, if you have +a sufficiently vigorous imagination, you may be able +to make yourself believe that you are in the city +of the Doges. Though somewhat noisy and nearly +always crowded—which is, of course, precisely what +their promoters want—the Los Angeles beaches provide +the cleanest amusements and the most wholesome +atmosphere of any places of their kind that I +know.</p> + +<p>Though Los Angeles is fifteen miles from the sea +as the aeroplane flies, and considerably farther by the +shortest railway route, the Angelenos have done their +best to mitigate this unfortunate circumstance by +attempting to convert the indifferent harbour of San +Pedro, twenty miles away, into a great artificial seaport. +Everything that money can do has been done. +The national government has dredged and improved +the harbour and built a huge breakwater at enormous +cost, and Los Angeles, which has extended her municipal +limits so as to include San Pedro, has spent millions +more in the construction of several miles of concrete +quays and the installation of the most powerful and +modern electric loading machinery. There is even +under serious consideration a plan for digging a ship-canal +from San Pedro to Los Angeles so that seagoing +vessels can discharge and take on cargo in the heart +of the commercial district. Though in time, as a result +of the impetus provided by the completion of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>[145]</span> +Panama Canal and the astounding growth of Los +Angeles, which now has a population of considerably +over half a million (in 1890 it had only fifty thousand), +San Pedro will doubtless develop into a port of considerable +importance for coastwise commerce, its limitations +are not likely to permit of its ever becoming a +dangerous rival of its great sister ports of San Francisco +and San Diego. The attitude of the San Franciscans +toward the laudable efforts of Los Angeles to +get a harbour of her own is amusingly illustrated by +a story they tell upon the coast. When the big breakwater +was completed and San Pedro was ready to do +business, Los Angeles celebrated the great event with +a banquet, among the guests of honour being a gentleman +prominent in the civic life of San Francisco. +Toward the close of an evening of self-congratulation +and of fervid oratory on Los Angeles’s dazzling future +as one of the great seaports of the world, the San +Franciscan was called upon to respond to a toast.</p> + +<p>“I have listened with the deepest interest, gentlemen,” +he began, “to what the speakers of the evening +have had to say regarding your new harbour at +San Pedro, and I have been impressed with a feeling +of regret that this magnificent harbour, which you +have constructed at so great an expenditure of money +and effort, is not more easy of access from your +beautiful city. Now it strikes me, gentlemen, that +you could overcome this unfortunate circumstance by +laying a pipe-line from Los Angeles to San Pedro. +Then, if you would suck as hard as you have been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>[146]</span> +blowing this evening, you would soon have the Pacific +Ocean at your front door.”</p> + +<p class="tb">Strung along the coast of California, from Point +Loma to Point Concepcion, are the Channel Islands. +Counting only the larger ones, they number twelve: +three Coronados, four Santa Catalinas, and five in +the Santa Barbara group; but if you include them all, +small as well as large, there are thirty-five distinct +links in the island chain which stretches from wind-swept +San Miguel to the Coronados. What the Azores, +Madeira, and the Canaries are to Europe, these enchanted +isles are to the Pacific Coast. They have +the climatic charm of the Riviera without its summer +heat; the delights of its winters without the raw, cold +winds which sweep down from the Maritime Alps. +With their palms and semitropic verdure they have all +the appearance of the tropics, yet they have not a +tropical climate, the winters having the crispness of +an Eastern October and the summers being cooler +than any portion of the Atlantic seaboard south of +Nova Scotia.</p> + +<p>Southernmost of the chain and not more than +ten miles southwest from San Diego as the sea-gull +flies is the group of rock-bound islets known as Los +Coronados, which belong to Mexico. Though uninhabited +and extremely rough, they are surrounded by +forests of kelp and form famous fishing grounds for the +big game of the deep. About a hundred miles to the +northward, off the coast of Los Angeles County, is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147"></a>[147]</span> +the group of which Santa Catalina is the largest and +the most famous. Though Santa Catalina is only +twenty-seven miles from San Pedro, the port of Los +Angeles, it takes the <i>Cabrillo</i>, owing to her tipsy +gait and the choppy sea which generally prevails in +the channel, nearly three hours to make the passage, +which is as notorious for producing <i>mal de mer</i> as that +across the Straits of Dover.</p> + +<p>The prehistoric people who inhabited Santa Catalina +during the Stone Age, and of whom many traces +have been found in the kitchen-middens which dot +the island, were first awakened to the fact that the +world contained others than themselves when the +Spanish sea-adventurer Cabrillo dropped the anchors +of his caravels off their shores. Nearly a century passed +away and then Philip III gave the island to one of his +generals as a present. Some two hundred years were +gathered into the past before Pio Pico, the Mexican +governor of Alta California, sold the island for the price +of a horse and saddle. In later years various other +transfers took place from time to time, James Lick, +who lies buried under his great telescope on Mount +Hamilton, being for a period lord of the island. Later +it was purchased as a prospective silver mine by an +English syndicate, but the ore ran out and the disgusted +Britishers were glad to dispose of it to the +Banning Company, which is the present owner.</p> + +<p>Santa Catalina, which is about twenty-seven +miles long, is shaped, with great appropriateness, like +a fish, the smaller portion, which corresponds to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148"></a>[148]</span> +tail, being connected with the main body of the island +by a sandy isthmus. The island is surrounded on all +sides by a dense jungle of kelp and other marine plants, +whose wonders visitors are able to view from glass-bottomed +boats. The topography of the island is +scarcely less striking than the sea gardens which surround +it. From the mountain peaks which rise to a +height of two thousand feet or more, V-shaped cañons, +their ridges pitched like the roof of a Swiss chalet, +sweep down, ever widening, to the silver beaches of the +sea. On the southern slopes cactus and sage-brush, +grim offspring of the desert, cling to the naked, sun-baked +rocks; on the other, the cooler side, dense, +growths of mountain lilac, manzanita, chaparral, elder +and other flowering shrubs form a striking contrast. +Most of the vast acreage of the island is a sheep ranch +and wild-goat range, but one cañon at the eastern end is +devoted to the visitor and filled by the charming town +of Avalon with a winter population of seven or eight +hundred, which in summer increases to that many +thousand. Avalon is unlike any other place that I +know. It is built on the shore of a crescent-shaped bay +at the mouth of a deep cañon which almost bisects the +island. At the upper end of this cañon a great wall +formed by a mountain ridge protects the town from +ocean winds and gives it what is probably the nearest +approach in the world to the “perfect climate.” The +quaint houses of the town, many of them of charming +and distinctive design, cling to the rocky hillsides and +dot the slopes of the cañons, adapting themselves, with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>[149]</span> +characteristic Americanism, to circumstances and conditions. +Along the water-front are the large hotels, a +concert pavilion, and the aquarium—which, by the +way, has a larger variety of marine animals than the +famous aquarium at Naples; farther up the beach is +a large and handsome bath-house where hundreds +bathe daily, and in the cañon at the back of the town +are the picturesque and sporting golf-links and the +tennis-courts. Though the island offers the visitor +an extraordinary diversity of amusements, Avalon’s +<i>raison d’être</i> is angling with rod and reel and everything +is subservient to that. To it, as big-game hunters go to +Africa, come fishermen from the farthermost corners +of the world in quest of the big game of the sea. From +the south side of the Bay of Avalon a long pier wades +out into the water. Just as the bridge across the Arno +in Florence is the resort of the gold and silver smiths, +so this pier is the resort of the professional tuna boatmen. +Along it, on either side, are ranged their booths +or stands, each with its elaborate display of the paraphernalia +of deep-sea fishing; a placard over each +booth bears the owner’s name and his power-boat is +anchored close by. At the end of the pier is a singular +object which resembles a gallows. Beside it is a +locked scales. On the gallows-like affair the great +game-fish are hung and photographed, and on the +scales all the fish taken in the tournaments are weighed +by the official weighers of the Tuna Club.</p> + +<p>If you will glance to starboard as the <i>Cabrillo</i> +steams slowly into Avalon Harbour, you will notice a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>[150]</span> +modest, brown frame building, with a railed terrace +dotted with armchairs, built on piles above the water. +This is the Tuna Club, the most famous institution +of its kind in the world. To become eligible to +membership in this unique club one must take on a +rod of not over sixteen ounces or under six feet and +with a line of not more than twenty-four threads, a +fish weighing over one hundred pounds. If elected one +receives the coveted blue button, which is the angler’s +Legion of Honour and to obtain which has cost many +fishermen thousands of dollars and years of patience, +while others have won it in a single day. The club +holds organised tournaments throughout the fishing +season, offering innumerable trophy cups and medals +of gold, silver, and bronze for the largest tuna, albacore, +sea-bass, yellowtail, and bonito caught by its members. +I might mention, in passing, that the largest tuna ever +taken was caught off Santa Catalina by Colonel C. P. +Morehouse, of Pasadena, in 1899; when placed on the +official scales the indicator registered two hundred and +fifty-one pounds. I know of no more interesting way +in which to pass an evening than to sit on the terrace +of the Tuna Club, looking out across the moonlit bay, +and listen to the tales told by these veterans of rod +and reel: of Judge Beaman, who hooked a tuna off +Avalon and was towed by the angry monster to +Redondo, a distance of thirty miles, or of Mr. Wood, +who played a fish for seven hours before it could be +brought to gaff. I have yarned with professional elephant +and lion hunters in the clubs at Mombasa and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>[151]</span> +Zanzibar, and I give you my word that their stories +were not a whit more fascinating than the tales of +battles with marine monsters which I listened to on the +terrace of the Tuna Club at Avalon.</p> + +<p>Santa Catalina’s nearest neighbour is San Clemente, +twenty miles long, whose northern shore is a +wonderland of grottoes, caves, and cliffs and on whose +rolling upland pastures browse many thousand head of +sheep. A hundred miles or so to the northward are the +islands composing the Santa Barbara group: Anacapa, +Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa, and San Miguel. The coast of +Anacapa—“the ever-changing”—is a maze of strange +caverns gnawed from the rock by the hungry sea, one +of them, of vast size, having once served as a retreat +for the pirates who formerly plied their trade along +this coast, and now for sea-lions and seals, a skipper +from Santa Barbara doing a thriving business in capturing +these animals and selling them for exhibition +purposes, the seals of Santa Cruz being in demand by +showmen all over the world because of their intelligence +and willingness to learn. The island, which is arid +and deserted, is a sheep ranch; the fact that there is +little or no water on it apparently causing no discomfort +to the sheep, as their coats become so soaked at +night as a result of the dense fogs that by morning +each animal is literally a walking sponge.</p> + +<p>Barring Santa Catalina, Santa Cruz is by far the +most interesting and attractive of the Channel Islands, +being worthy of a visit if for no other reason +than to see its painted caves, which have been worn<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>[152]</span> +by the waves into the most fantastic shapes and dyed +by the salts gorgeous and varied colors. Viewed from +the sea, Santa Cruz appears to be but a jumble of lofty +hills, sheer cliffs, and barren, purple mountains, gashed +and scarred by cañons and gorges in all directions. +But once you have crossed this rocky barrier which +hems the island in, you find yourself in the loveliest +Valley that the imagination could well conceive, with +palms and oleanders and bananas growing everywhere +and a climate as perfect and considerably milder than +that of Avalon. The island is the property of the Caire +estate; its proprietor is a Frenchman, and French and +Italian labourers are employed exclusively on the ranch +and in the vineyards which cover the interior of the +island. When you set foot within the valley you leave +America behind. The climate is that of southern +France. The vineyard is a European vineyard. The +brown-skinned folk who work in it speak the patois of +the French or Italian peasantry. The ranch-houses, of +plastered and whitewashed brick, with their iron balconies +and their quaint and brilliant gardens, might have +been transplanted bodily from Savoy, while the great +flocks of sheep grazing contentedly upon the encircling +hills complete the illusion that you are in the Old +World instead of within a hundred miles of the newest +metropolis in the New. There are two distinct seasons +at Santa Cruz—the sheep-shearing and the vintage—when +the French and Italian islanders are reinforced by +large numbers of Barbareños, from Santa Barbara +across the channel, who pick the grapes in September<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153"></a>[153]</span> +and twice yearly shear the sheep. Though the surface +of the island is cut in every direction by cañons, +gulches, and precipices, the Barbareño horsemen, who +are descended from the old Mexican vaquero stock, +mounted on the agile island ponies, in rounding up the +sheep, ride at top speed down precipitous cliffs and +along the brinks of giddy chasms which an ordinary +mortal would hesitate to negotiate with hobnailed +boots and an alpenstock. It is a thrilling and hair-raising +exhibition of horsemanship and nerve and, +should you ever happen to be along that coast at +shearing time, I would advise you to obtain a permit +from the Caire family and go over to Santa Cruz to +see it.</p> + +<p>Sport in the Channel Islands is not confined to +fishing, for there is excellent wild-goat shooting on +Santa Catalina and wild-boar shooting on Santa Cruz. +Though both goats and boars are doubtless descended +from domestic animals introduced by the early Spaniards, +they have lived so long in a state of freedom that +they provide genuinely exciting sport. These wild pigs +are dangerous beasts for an unmounted, unarmed man +to meet, however, for they combine the staying qualities +of a Georgia razor-back with the ferocity of a +Moroccan boar and will charge a man without the +slightest hesitation.</p> + +<p>Taking them by and large, the Channel Islands are, +I believe, unique. Where else, pray, within a half +day’s sail of a city of six hundred thousand people, +can one explore pirates’ caves, pick bananas from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154"></a>[154]</span> +the trees, shoot wild goat and wild boar, angle for +the largest fish in existence, and, no matter what the +season of the year, dwell in a climate of perpetual +spring?</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>[155]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="VI">VI<br> +<span class="smaller">THE COAST OF FAIRYLAND</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>[156]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“All in the golden weather, forth let us ride to-day,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You and I together on the King’s Highway.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The blue skies above us, and below the shining sea;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There’s many a road to travel, but it’s this road for me.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="center">...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">It’s a long road and sunny, it’s a long road and old,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the brown <i>padres</i> made it for the flocks of the fold;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They made it for the sandals of the sinner folk that trod</div> + <div class="verse indent0">From the fields in the open to the mission-house of God.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="center">...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">We will take the road together through the morning’s golden glow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And we’ll dream of those who trod it in the mellowed long ago;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We will stop at the Missions where the sleeping <i>padres</i> lay,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And we’ll bend a knee above them for their souls’ sake to pray.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">We’ll ride through the valleys where the blossom’s on the tree,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Through the orchards and the meadows with the bird and the bee,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And we’ll take the rising hills where the manzanitas grow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Past the grey tails of waterfalls where blue violets blow.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Old conquistadores, O brown priests and all,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Give us your ghosts for company when night begins to fall;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There’s many a road to travel, but it’s this road to-day,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With the breath of God above us on the King’s Highway.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>[157]</span></p> + +<h3>VI<br> +<span class="smaller">THE COAST OF FAIRYLAND</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>Following the example of the late J. Cæsar, +Esquire, the well-known Roman politician, who +districted Gaul into three parts, California might be +divided into three provinces of pleasure: the Sierras, +the Sequoias, and the Sands. Though nowhere separated +by a journey of more than a single day at most, +these three zones are as dissimilar in their physical +and climatical characteristics and in the recreations +they offer to the visitor as the coast of Brittany is +from the Engadine, as the Black Forest is from the +Italian Lakes, or, coming nearer home, as unlike each +other as the White Mountains are unlike Atlantic +City, as Muskoka is unlike Bar Harbour. Within the +confines of a region five hundred miles long and barely +two hundred wide may be found as many varieties of +climate, scenery, and recreation as are provided by +all the resorts of eastern America and Europe put +together.</p> + +<p>That California’s summer climate is even more +delightful than its whiter climate is a fact which not +one outlander in a hundred seems able to comprehend. +Because the paralysing cold of an Eastern winter is +equalised by a correspondingly sweltering summer, +your average Easterner, who has heard all his life of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>[158]</span> +California’s winter climate, finds it impossible to disabuse +himself of the conviction that a region which is +so climatically blessed by Nature during one half of the +year must, as a matter of course, be cursed with intolerable +weather during the other half, so as to strike, +as it were, an average. A climate which is equally +inviting in January and in July is altogether beyond +his comprehension. He fails to understand why +Nature does not treat California as impartially as she +does other regions, making her pay for balmy, cloudless +winter days with summers marked by scorching +heat and torrential rains. Summer in California is +really equivalent to an Eastern June. The nights are +always cool, and the blankets, instead of being packed +away in moth balls, cover you to the chin. There is +no humidity and the air, which in most summer climates +is about as invigorating as lemonade, is as crisp +and sparkling as dry champagne. Nor is there any +rain. This is literal. There is, I repeat, no rain. Each +August the Bohemian Club of San Francisco produces +its famous Grove Play in a natural amphitheatre formed +by the rocks and redwoods of the Californian forest. +The cost of the production runs into many thousands +of dollars and involves many months of effort, but the +preparations are made with the absolute assurance that +the performance will be unmarred by rain. In a quarter +of a century the club members have not been disturbed +by so much as a sprinkle. Did you ever plan a motor +trip or a picnic or a fishing excursion during an Eastern +summer only to be awakened on the morning of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>[159]</span> +appointed day by the rain pattering on the roof? That +sort of thing doesn’t happen in California any more +than it does in Egypt. Pick out your midsummer day, +no matter whether it is a week or a month or a year +ahead, and on that morning you will find the weather +waiting for you at the front door. This absence of +rain is not an entirely unmitigated blessing, however, +for it means dust. And such dust! I have never seen +any region so intolerably dusty as is the Great Valley +of California in midsummer except the Attic Plain. +A jack-rabbit scurrying across the desert sends up a +column of dust like an Indian signal-fire. Along the +coast, however, the dust nuisance is ameliorated to +some extent by the summer fogs which come rolling +in from the sea at dawn, leaving the countryside as +fresh and sparkling as though it had been sprinkled +by a heavy dew. The farther up the coast you go, the +heavier these fogs become, until, north of Monterey, +they resemble the driving mists so characteristic of +the Scottish highlands. For the benefit of golfers +I might add that these moisture-laden fogs make possible +the chain of splendid turf golf-links which begin +at Monterey, the courses farther south, where there is +but little moisture during the summer, being characterised +by greens of oiled sand and fairways which +during six months of the year are as dry and hard +as a bone. Artists will tell you that the summer landscapes +of California are far more beautiful than its +winter ones, and I am inclined to believe that they +are right, for in June the countryside, with its unnumbered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>[160]</span> +<i>nuances</i> of green and purple, is transformed, +as though by the wave of a magician’s wand, into a +dazzling land of russets and burnt oranges and chromes +and yellows.</p> + +<p>California may best be described as a great walled +garden with one side facing on the sea. It is separated +from those unfortunate regions which lie at the back +of it by the most remarkable garden wall in all the +world. This wall, which is, on an average, two miles +high, is five hundred miles long, having Mount San +Jacinto for its southern and Mount Shasta for its +northern corner. At the back of the garden rises, +peak on peak, range on range, the snow-clad Sierra +Nevada. Gradually descending, the high peaks give +way to lesser ones, the ranges dwindle to foot-hills, the +foot-hills run out in cañons and grassy valleys, the +valley slopes become clothed with forests, the forests +merge into groves of gnarled, fantastic live-oaks, and +these in turn to gorse-covered dunes which sweep down +to meet the sea. The whole of this vast garden—mountain, +forest, and shore—is dotted with accommodations +for the visitor which are adapted to all tastes and to +all purses and which range all the way from huge +caravansaries which rival those of Ostend and Aix-les-Bains, +of Narragansett and Lake Placid, to tented +cities pitched beneath the whispering redwoods or +beside the murmuring sea.</p> + +<p>Unless you have seen the Lago di Garda at its +bluest, unless you have loitered beneath the palms +which line the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, unless<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>[161]</span> +you have bathed on the white sands of Waikiki, unless +you have motored along the Corniche Road, with the +sun-flecked Mediterranean on the one hand and the +dim blue outline of the Alps upon the other, you cannot +picture with any degree of accuracy the beauties of +this enchanted littoral. From Cannes, where the Mediterranean +Riviera properly begins, to San Remo, where +it ends, is barely one hundred miles, every foot of which +is so built over with hotels and villas and straggling +villages that you feel as though you were passing +through a city, the impression being heightened by the +gendarmes who stare at you suspiciously and by the +admonitory notices which confront you at every turn. +From Coronado, where the Californian Riviera begins, +to the Golden Gate, where it ends, is six hundred miles, +and every foot of that six hundred miles is through a +veritable garden of the Lord. Along this coast date-palms +and giant cacti give place to citrus groves ablaze +with golden fruit and these, in turn, merge into the +grey-green of the olive; the olive groves change to +orchards of peach and apricot and prune, and these +lose themselves in time in hillsides green with live-oaks, +and the live-oaks turn to redwoods and the redwoods +yield to pines. Bordering this historic coastal highway—El +Camino Real, it is still called—are vast +ranches whose hillsides are alive with grazing flocks +and herds; great estates, triumphs of the landscape-gardener’s +skill, with close-clipped hedges and velvet +lawns from amid which rise Norman châteaux and +Italian villas and Elizabethan manor-houses; quaint<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>[162]</span> +bungalows with deep, cool verandas, half hidden by +blazing gardens; and, of course, hotels—dozens and +dozens of them, with roses tumbling in cascades of +colour over stucco walls and cool terraces shaded by +red-striped awnings. It is indeed an enchanted coast, +and I, who had always boasted to myself that I had +seen too many of the world’s beauty-spots to give my +allegiance to any one of them, have—I admit it +frankly—fallen victim to its spell.</p> + +<p class="tb">Between Los Angeles and Ventura lies one of +the most flourishing agricultural regions in the State, +the districts through which we sped on the wings of +the winter morning being variously noted for their +production of hay, walnuts, olives, beets, and beans. +Ventura is the railroad brakeman’s contraction of San +Buenaventura—it is obvious that a trainman could +not spare the time to enunciate so long a name—the +picturesque coast town and county-seat owing its +origin to the mission which the Franciscan <i>padres</i> +founded here a year after the Battle of Yorktown and +which is still in daily use. From Ventura we made a +detour of fifteen miles or so for the purpose of visiting +the Ojai Valley (it is pronounced “O-hi” if you please), +a little place of surpassing beauty which not many +people know about, like Thun in the Bernese Oberland, +or Annecy, near Aix-les-Bains. The road to the Ojai +strikes directly inland from the coast, following the +devious course of the Matilija, climbing up and up +and up, through forests of live-oaks and mountain<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>[163]</span> +meadows carpeted with wild flowers, until it suddenly +debouches into the valley itself. Because the Ojai +is so very beautiful, and is at the same time so simple +and sylvan and unpretending, it is a little difficult to +give an accurate idea of it in words. Though Mount +Topotopo, the highest of the peaks which hem it in, +is not much over six thousand feet, it can best be +compared, I think, to some of the Alpine valleys, such +as Andermatt, for example, or the one below Grindelwald. +I do not particularly like the idea of continually +dragging in Europe as a standard of comparison +for things American, but so many of our people have +come to know Europe better than they do their own +country that it is the only means I have of making +them realise the beauties and wonders on which, with +the coming of each summer, they habitually turn their +backs.</p> + +<p>To visualise the Ojai you must imagine a boat-shaped +valley, ten miles long perhaps and a fifth of +that in width, entirely surrounded by a wall of purple +mountains. The floor of the valley is covered with +lush green grass and dotted with thousands of gnarled +and hoary live-oaks with venerable grey beards of +Spanish moss. Through the trees peep the shingled, +weather-beaten cottages of Nordhoff, which, with its +leafy lanes, its shady blacksmith shop, its cosy inn, +and its collection of country stores with the inevitable +group of loungers chewing tobacco and whittling and +settling the affairs of the nation in the shade of +their wooden awnings, is as quaint and sleepy and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>[164]</span> +unspoiled a hamlet as you can find west of Cape +Cod. The annual tournaments of the Ojai Valley +Tennis Club, which for nearly twenty years have +been held each spring on the pretty oak-fringed +courts behind the inn, attract the crack players of the +coast, and here have been developed no less than six +national champions. As you ascend the mountain +slopes the character of the vegetation abruptly changes, +the oak groves giving way to orchards of orange, lemon, +fig, and olive, which, taken in conjunction with the +palms and the veritable riot of flowers, give to the sides +of the valley an almost tropical appearance. The +Ojai is said to have more varieties of birds and flowers +than any place in the United States, and I think that +the statement is doubtless true. It is like an aviary in a +botanical garden. Snuggled away in the mountains at +the back of the Ojai are two equally enchanting but +much less frequented valleys: the Matilija and the +Sespe—the latter accessible only on a sure-footed horse +along a mountain trail which is precipitous in places +and nowhere overwide. In the spring and summer +the streams which tumble through these mountain +valleys are alive with trout jumping-hungry for the +fly. If you can accommodate yourself to simple accommodations +and plain but wholesome fare you can eat +and sleep and fish a very delightful vacation away at +the rate of two dollars a day or ten a week.</p> + +<p>High on the slopes of the Ojai, its brown shingles +almost hidden by the Gold of Ophir roses which clamber +over it, is a little hotel called The Foot-hills. It is an<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>[165]</span> +unpretending little inn with perhaps forty rooms at +most. But, shades of Lucullus and Mrs. Rorer, what +meals they set before you! Brook-trout which that +very morning were leaping in the Matilija, hot biscuits +with honey from the Sespe, huge purple figs, +grapefruit fresh-picked from the adjacent orchard, +strawberries with lashings of thick yellow cream. I’ve +never been able to decide which I like best about the +Ojai, its scenery or its food. But as it becomes better +known and more people begin to go there, I suppose +the same thing will happen to it which happened to a +dear little <i>albergo</i> in Venice which I once knew and +loved. For many years it stood on the Guidecca, +quite undiscovered by the tourist, and in their day had +sheltered the Brownings and Carlyle. It was a sure +refuge from the bustle and turmoil of the big hotels, +and not infrequently I used to go there for a lunch of +omelet and strawberries and Chianti served under a +vine-clad pergola on the edge of the canal. The first +time that I took Her to Venice, I said, as we were +leaving the great caravansary where we were stopping:</p> + +<p>“I know a place where we will lunch. I haven’t +been there for years and I don’t remember its name, +but I think that I can find it,” and I described it in +detail to Angelo, our gondolier.</p> + +<p>“<i>Si, si, signor</i>,” he assured me, and shoved off +with his long oar.</p> + +<p>Four times we rowed up and down the Guidecca +without my being able to locate my beloved little +hotel.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>[166]</span></p> + +<p>“This must have been the place you meant, +signor,” Angelo said finally, pointing to a building +which was rapidly being demolished and to a staring +sign which read: “A new five-story hotel with hot and +cold running water, electric lights, and all modern conveniences +will shortly be erected on this site. Meals +<i>prix fixe</i> or <i>à la carte</i>. Music every evening.”</p> + +<p>And that, I suppose, is what will happen to my +little hotel in the Ojai when the world comes to learn +about it. So I beg you who read this not to mention +it to any one.</p> + +<p class="tb">Until quite recently the route from the Ojai to +Santa Barbara led over the Casitas Pass by a precipice-bordered +road so narrow and dangerous that the +fear of it kept many motorists away. But now the +Casitas is a thing of the past, for a highway has been +built along the edge of the sea by what is known as the +Rincon route, several miles of it lying over wooden +causeways not unlike the viaducts for Mr. Flagler’s +seagoing railway on the Florida keys. This portion +of the coast is one long succession of <i>barrancas</i>, each +with a rocky creek bed worn by the winter torrent at +its bottom, so that the road builders had many obstacles +with which to contend. It is a very beautiful +highway, however, and reminds one at every turn of +the Corniche Road along the Riviera, with the same +lazy ocean on the one side and the same blue serrated +mountains on the other. Through Carpinteria we ran, +pausing in our flight just long enough to take a look at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>[167]</span> +a grape-vine with a trunk eight feet in circumference, +which has borne in a single season, so its guardian +assured us, upward of ten tons of grapes; through +Summerland, where the forest of derricks and the reek +of petroleum suggest the hand of Rockefeller; past +Miramar, as smothered in flowers as the heroine of +d’Annunzio’s play; through Montecito, with its marble +villas and red-roofed mansions rising above the groves +of cypress and cedar; down the splendid Ocean Drive, +where the great rollers from the Pacific come booming +in to break in iridescent splendour on the silver strand; +and so into Santa Barbara, the Newport of the West, +where buildings of stone and concrete jostle elbows +with picturesque hovels of adobe.</p> + +<p>Santa Barbara presents more curious contrasts, I +suppose, than any place between the oceans. Drawn +up beside the curb you will see a magnificent limousine, +the very latest product of the automobile builder’s +art, with the strength of fourscore horses beneath its +sloping hood and as luxuriously fitted as a lady’s boudoir; +a Mexican vaquero, sombreroed, flannel-shirted, +his legs encased in high-heeled boots and fleecy chaps, +fresh from the cattle-ranges on the other side of the +mountains, will rein up his wiry mustang and dexterously +roll a cigarette and ask the liveried chauffeur +for a match—<i>Muchas gracias, Señor</i>. On State Street +stands a huge concrete office-building, the very last +word in urban architecture, with hydraulic elevators +and cork-paved corridors and up-to-the-minute ventilating +devices, and all the rest. A man can stand in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168"></a>[168]</span> +front of that building and toss an orange into the <i>patio</i> +of a long, low, deep-verandaed dwelling whose walls +of crumbling adobe show that it dates from the period +when this land was ruled from Madrid instead of +Washington. Though there are plenty of buildings +dating from the Spanish era left, the observing stranger +will note that few if any of them retain their original +roofs of hand-made, moss-grown tiles. Why? Because +the old Spanish tiles will bring almost any price +that is asked for them, being in great demand for +roofing the houses of the rich. In fact, I know of one +Santa Barbara mansion which is roofed with tiles +brought from the old cathedral at Panama. Nor have +I the least doubt in the world that these plutocratic +philistines would strip the historic mission which is +Santa Barbara’s chiefest asset of its tiles and bells and +crosses if the monks could be induced to sell them.</p> + +<p>Over in the section known as the Old Town all +the houses are Mexican in character, their walls tinted +yellow, pink, bright blue. This, with the palm-trees +and the cactus in the dusty, unkempt dooryards, the +groups of brown-faced, black-eyed youngsters by the +gates, and the Spanish names—Garcias, Ortegas, +Oteros, Espinosas, De la Guerras—which one sees +everywhere, makes one realise that Santa Barbara is +still Latin in everything save cleanliness. Merely to +read the street names—Cañon Perdido, Anapamu, +Arellaga, Micheltorena, Pedragoso, Chapala, Salsipuedes—makes +you feel that you are in some Castilian +town and not in the United States of the twentieth<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>[169]</span> +century at all. Why on earth, while they were about it, +they didn’t call the town’s main thoroughfare La Calle +del Estado instead of prosaic State Street, I fail to +understand. This glaring inconsistency in nomenclature +is almost compensated for, however, by the +little square down on the ocean front which is called +the Plaza del Mar. Here barelegged youngsters, +guarded by anxious nurses, gambol upon the sands; +here the old folks doze contentedly upon the green +benches and look out to sea and listen to the music of +La Monica’s band; here lovers sit silently, clasping +hands beneath the palms, just as other children, other +old folk, other lovers are doing in other plazas in Old +Spain.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus21" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus21.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>“Even the imposing façade of the Arlington, + with its arches, cloisters, terraces, and <i>campanarios</i>, suggests a + Spanish monastery.”</p> + <p>“A long, low, deep-verandaed dwelling whose pottery roof and walls of + adobe show that it dates from the period when this land was ruled from + Madrid instead of Washington.”</p> + <p>SANTA BARBARA. A CITY OF CONTRASTS.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>To understand the charm of Santa Barbara as a +place of residence, you should stroll down State Street +on a winter’s morning. Like Bellevue Avenue in Newport, +it is the meeting-place for all the town. Youths +in tweed jackets and flannel trousers stand beside the +curbs chatting with pretty girls in rakish, vivid-coloured +motor-cars. Dowagers descend from stately +limousines and enter the shops to order sweetbreads +and cotillion favours and the latest novels. Young +men astride of mettlesome ponies trot by on their +way to polo practice. Prosperous-looking, well-groomed +men of years, who look as though they might be bank +presidents and railway directors and financiers and +probably are, pause to discuss the wretched weather +prevailing in the East and to thank their lucky stars +that they are out of it and to challenge each other to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170"></a>[170]</span> +a game of golf. Slim young girls in riding-boots and +beautifully cut breeches patronise the soda-fountains +and hang over the fiction counters in the bookstore +and chatter volubly about tennis and theatres and +tango teas. It is one big reception, at which every one +knows every one else and every one else’s business. +Though there is a great deal of wealth and fashion in +Santa Barbara, there is likewise a great deal of informality, +which makes it a pleasant contrast to Pasadena, +which is so painfully conscious of its millionaires +that life there possesses about as much informality +as a court ball.</p> + +<p>The ancient mission, which with the climate is +Santa Barbara’s chief attraction, provides the <i>motif</i> +for the city’s architecture, and the citizens have made +a very commendable effort to live up to it, or rather +to build up to it, even the imposing façade of the Arlington, +with its arches, cloisters, terraces and <i>campanarios</i>, +suggesting a Spanish monastery far more +than a great tourist hotel. It is the monks themselves, +however, who have been the most flagrant offenders +against the canons of architectural good taste, for +within a stone’s throw of their beautiful old mission +they have erected a college which looks for all the +world like a shoe factory surmounted by a cupola and +a cross. No matter from what point upon the encircling +hills you look down upon the city, that atrocious +college, as angular, uncompromising, and out of the +picture as a New England schoolmarm at a <i>thé dansant</i>, +comes up and hits you in the eye.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus22" style="max-width: 28.125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus22.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>THE MISSION OF SANTA BARBARA.</p> + <p>“The sunlight, sifted and softened by the interlacing branches of the + ancient sycamores, cast a veil of yellow radiance upon the crumbling, + weather-worn façade.”</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171"></a>[171]</span></p> + +<p>Perhaps you were not aware that about one out +of every ten plays which flicker before your fascinated +eyes on the motion-picture screen were taken in or +near Santa Barbara, for the country round about the +town is a moving-picture producer’s paradise and +several companies have built their studios there and +make it their permanent headquarters. Within a +five-mile radius of the Plaza del Mar are settings in +which can be enacted scenes laid anywhere between +Cancer and Capricorn. There are sandy beaches which +might have been made expressly for shipwrecks and +buccaneering exploits and similar “water stuff”; there +are Greek and Spanish villas hidden away in subtropical +gardens which would provide backgrounds for +anything from the “Odyssey” to “The Orchid-Hunter”; +and back of them are tawny foot-hill ranges where +bands of cow-punchers, spectacularly garbed, pursue +horse thieves or valorously defend wagon-trains attacked +by Indians, taking good care, however, to keep +within the focal radius of the camera.</p> + +<p>Of the many things in and about Santa Barbara +which appeal to the imagination, I think that I liked +best the miniature caravels which surmount the massive +gate-posts at the entrance to the Arlington. To +most visitors I suppose that they are only puppet +vessels, quaintly rigged and strangely shaped, to be +sure, but nothing more. But to me they stand for +something very definite indeed, do those little carven +craft. They represent the <i>San Salvador</i> and the <i>Vittoria</i>, +the little caravels in which Juan Rodrigues Cabrillo,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172"></a>[172]</span> +the intrepid Portuguese sea adventurer who +hired his sword and services to Spain, sailed up this +storied coast upward of three centuries ago and whose +anchors rumbled down off these very shores. From out +the mist of fiction, romance, legend, and fairy-tale +which beclouds the early history of California, the +certain and authenticated voyage of this Portuguese +sailor of fortune stands out sharp and clear as the one +fact upon which we can rely. Though he never returned +from the land which he discovered, though he has been +overlooked by History and forgotten by Fame, his +adventure has become immortal, for he put California +on the map.</p> + +<p class="tb">Were you to turn your back on the Pacific at some +point between Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo +and strike due eastward, you would find athwart your +path, shortly before reaching the Nevada line, the +crudest and most forbidding of the earth’s waste +places—Death Valley. At the very back of California, +paralleling the eastern boundary of Inyo County, +sandwiched between the great wall formed by the High +Sierras and the burning sands of the Colorado Desert, +this seventy-five-mile-long gash in the earth’s surface—the +floor of the valley is two hundred and ten feet +below the level of the sea—is one of the most extraordinary +regions in the world. It is a place of contrasts +and contradictions. Though in summer it is probably +the hottest place on earth, in winter the cold becomes +so great that the thermometer cannot record it. Its<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173"></a>[173]</span> +aridity is so extreme that men have died from lack of +moisture with water at their lips. Though rain is +virtually unknown, the lives of the inhabitants are +frequently menaced by the floods which result from +cloudbursts. A mountain range, whose rocks are of +such incredibly vivid colours that even a scene-painter +would hesitate to depict them as they are, is called the +Funeral Range. Though nearly a score of lives were +lost when the valley was christened, and though its +history from that day to this has been one of hardship, +peril, and death, with little to relieve its harshness, for +fully half the year Death Valley is as healthy a spot +as any on the continent. During the other half, however, +it is a sample package of that fire-and-brimstone +hell of which the old-time preachers were wont to warn +us. Indeed, the hereafter could hold no terrors for a +man who was able to survive a summer in Death +Valley.</p> + +<p>The valley first became known by the tragedy +which gave it its name. The year following the discovery +of gold in California a party of thirty emigrants, +losing their heads in their mad lust for the yellow +metal, left the well-travelled Overland Trail and struck +south through this region in the hope of finding a short +cut to the gold-fields. But they found a short cut +to death instead, for they lost their way in the valley +and eighteen of them perished horribly from thirst. +The valley, which runs almost due north and south, is +about seventy-five miles long, and at its lowest point, +where the climate is the worst, it is not over eight miles<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174"></a>[174]</span> +in width. To the west the Panamints reach their +greatest altitude, while on the east the Funeral Range +is practically one huge ridge, with almost a vertical +precipice on the side next the valley. To the south +another range, running east and west, shuts in the +foot of the valley and turns it into a <i>cul-de-sac</i>. Seen +from the summit of the Panamint Range, the valley +looks for all the world like a huge grey snake marked +with narrow bands of dirty white, which are the borax +deposits. Far to the north, gleaming in the sunlight +like a slender blade of steel, is the Amargosa River, +while on either side of the valley the ranges rear themselves +skyward in strata of such gorgeous colours that +beside them the walls of the Grand Cañon would look +cold and drab. The vegetation is scant, stunted, and +unhappy; the thorny mesquite shrub takes on a sickly +yellowish tinge; the sage-brush is the colour of ashes; +even the cactus, which flourishes on the inhospitable +steppes of the adjacent Mohave Desert, has given up +the struggle to exist in Death Valley in despair. But, +arid as the valley is, it has two streams running through +it. One, the Amargosa, comes in at the north end, +where it forms a wash that gives out volumes of sulphuretted +hydrogen which poisons the air for miles +around. The other is Furnace Creek, whose waters +are drinkable though hot. Everything considered, it +is not exactly a cheerful place, is Death Valley.</p> + +<p>Weather Bureau officials would tell you, should +you ask them, that when there is ninety per cent of +humidity in the air the weather is insufferably oppressive;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175"></a>[175]</span> +that air with seventy per cent of humidity is about +right; that sixty or fifty per cent, as when a room is +overheated by a stove or furnace, will produce headaches; +while, should the percentage be reduced to +thirty, or even forty, the air would become positively +dangerous to health. Imagine, then, what existence +must be like in Death Valley in midsummer, when the +air, raised to furnace heat by its passage over the +deserts, is kiln-dried in the pit below sea-level until +its percentage of moisture is <i>less than one half of one +per cent</i>! Effects of this ultrararefied air are observed +on every hand. Men employed in ditch digging +on the borax company’s ranch were compelled to sleep +in the running water with their heads on stones to keep +their faces above the surface—and this was not in the +hottest weather, either. Furniture built elsewhere is +quickly and utterly ruined. Tables warp into fantastic +shapes. Chairs split and fall apart. Water barrels +incautiously left empty lose their hoops in an hour. +Eggs are boiled hard in the sand. A handkerchief +taken from the tub and held up in the sun will dry +more quickly than it would before a red-hot stove. +One end of a blanket that is being washed will dry +while the other is still in the tub. Meat killed at night +and cooked at six in the morning is spoiled by nine. +A man cannot go without water for an hour without +becoming insane. A thermometer, hung in the coolest +place available, for forty-eight hours never dropped +below 104, repeatedly registered 130, and occasionally +climbed to 137. A borax driver died, canteen in hand,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176"></a>[176]</span> +atop his wagon. “He was that parched that his head +cracked open over the top,” said a man who saw the +body.</p> + +<p>But in October, strange as it may seem, Death +Valley becomes a dreamy, balmy, <i>dolce far niente</i> land, +the home of the Indian summer. Later in the season +snow falls in the mountains to the west to a depth of +three feet or more. At the Teels Marsh borax works +the thermometer has registered 120 in the shade of the +house in August and yet before the winter was over +the mercury froze and the temperature dropped to +50 below zero! There is no place on earth, so far as +I am aware, where so wide a variation has been recorded. +Though it rarely if ever rains in the valley, +cloudbursts frequently occur amid the adjacent mountain +tops—usually in the hottest weather and when +least expected—and in the face of the roaring floods +which follow the people in the valley fly to the foot-hills +for their lives. More appalling than the floods, however, +are the sand-storms which are a recognised +feature of life (existence would be a better term) in +Death Valley. A sand-storm sweeping down that vale +of desolation is a never-to-be-forgotten sight. The +wind shrieks by with the speed of an express train. +A dense brown fog completely blots the landscape out. +Sand augers rise like slender stems joining sand and +sky, whirling madly hither and thither through the +burning atmosphere like genii suddenly gone mad. +The air is filled with flying pebbles, sand, and dust. It +is like a Dakota blizzard with the grit of broken volcanic<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177"></a>[177]</span> +rock in place of snow. These sand-storms +commonly last for three days; then they end as suddenly +as they began, leaving the desert swooning +amid its shifting waves of heat. Mirages raise up +spectral cities, groves, tree-bordered rivers, lush, green +fields as though by the sweep of a magician’s wand. +In the rarefied air the ruins of an adobe hut are magnified +into a sky-scraper; arrow weeds become stately +palms; a crow walking on the ground appears to be a +man on horseback.</p> + +<p>The borax deposits for which the valley is famous +are exactly alike in their general appearance: a bowl-shaped +depression hemmed in by barren hills and at +the bottom of this bowl an expanse that looks like water +or salt or dirty snow or chalk, according to the distance, +but which is really the boracic efflorescence on +the bed of a dried-up lake. Walking out upon the +marsh, one finds it covered with a sandy-looking crust +through which the feet generally break, clay or slime +being found beneath. To reach the railway the borax +has to be hauled half a hundred miles by wagon under +a deadly sun. The wagons used are huge affairs with +wheels seven feet in diameter and tires eight inches +wide, each carrying ten tons. Two tremendous Percherons +are harnessed to the pole and ahead of them, +fastened by double-trees to a steel chain that stretches +from the forward axle, are nine pairs of mules, the +driver from his lofty seat controlling his twenty animals +by means of a one-hundred-and-twenty-foot +jerk line, a bucket of stones, and a complete assortment<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178"></a>[178]</span> +of objurgations. The next time, therefore, that +you chance to see a package of borax, stop and think +what it has cost—insufferable heat, bitter cold, sand-storms, +agonizing thirst, sunstroke—yes, sometimes +even death.</p> + +<p class="tb">From Santa Barbara, El Camino Real, ever glowing, +ever luring, bids <i>adios</i> to the sea for a time and +sweeps inland again through a land of oak groves and +olive orchards and frequent outcroppings of rock, +which, with the bleak purple mountains rising up +behind it, bears so startling a resemblance to Andalusia +that the homesick Spanish friars must have rubbed +their eyes and wondered whether they were really in +the New World after all. Our road, winding steadily +upward under the shadow of giant oaks and sycamores, +crossed the Santa Ynez Range by the Gaviota Pass +(<i>gaviota</i>, I might note in passing, meaning sea-gull in +the Spanish tongue), the car, its engines humming the +monotone which is the motorist’s lullaby, taking the +long, steep grades like a hunted cat on the top of a +back-yard fence.</p> + +<p>From the summit of the pass we dropped down the +brush-clothed flanks of the mountains by a zigzag +road into a secluded river valley whose peace and +pastoral loveliness were as grateful, after the stirring +grandeur of the Gaviota, as is the five-o’clock whistle +to the workman after a busy day. By this same pass +the trail of the <i>padres</i> ran when, a century ago, they +walked between the missions, so that it was with peculiar<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179"></a>[179]</span> +appropriateness that there rose before us, as we +swung around a shoulder of the mountain, the Mission +of Santa Ynez, its white colonnades gleaming like ivory +in the morning sunlight, its pottery roof forming a +splendid note of colour against the lush, green fields, +its cross-surmounted campanile pointing heavenward, +just as the fingers of its cassocked builders were wont +to do. Thanks to the patience and perseverance of +Padre Alejandro, the priest in charge, the famous mission, +which was in a deplorable state of neglect when +he came there a dozen years ago, has been reroofed +and in a large measure restored, the south corridor, +which runs the length of the <i>convento’s</i> front, where +the brown-robed monks were wont to pace up and down +in silent meditation, having been transformed into a +sort of loggia, bright with sunshine and fragrant with +flowers. It is a pleasing survival of the spirit of the +old monastic days that no one, derelict, hobo, or tramp, +who applies at the Mission Santa Ynez for food or +shelter is ever turned away. I think the thing that +brought home to me most vividly the hardships endured +by the cowled and sandalled founders of these +missions was a great umbrella of yellow silk, bordered +with faded blue, which caught my attention in the +sacristy.</p> + +<p>“What was this umbrella used for, father?” I inquired.</p> + +<p>“That, my son,” said Padre Alejandro, “was used +by the <i>padres</i> to shield themselves from the sun on +their journeys between the missions, for they were not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180"></a>[180]</span> +permitted to ride but were compelled by their vows +to go always afoot. Though Father Serra was lame, +and every step that he took caused him the extremest +anguish, he not once but many times walked the six +hundred miles which lay between San Diego and his +northernmost mission at Sonoma.”</p> + +<p>One would naturally suppose that the people of +California would be inordinately proud of these crumbling +missions which have played so great a part in +the history of their State and would take steps to have +them preserved as national monuments, just as the +French Government preserves its historic châteaux. +But, for some unexplainable reason, just the opposite +is true, the priests in charge of several of the missions +assuring me that they had the greatest difficulty in +obtaining funds to effect even the most imperative repairs, +depending very largely on the contributions of +Eastern visitors. We Americans excuse ourselves for +this unpardonable neglect by explaining that we are +still a young people, which, of course, is true. It is +equally true, however, that by the time we are old +enough to appreciate their historic significance and +value, there will be no missions left to preserve.</p> + +<p>Should you who read this follow in our tire tracks, +you should not fail to stop for luncheon at a hamlet, +not far from Santa Ynez, called, from the olive orchards +which surround it, Los Olivos. There is a little inn +there kept by a Frenchman named Mattei—a Basque +he is, if I remember rightly—who will serve you just +such a meal as you can get at one of those wayside<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181"></a>[181]</span> +<i>fondas</i> in the Pyrenees. The country adjacent to Los +Olivos is noted for its fishing and shooting, so that instead +of the roast-beef-mashed-potatoes-pie-and-coffee +luncheon which the motorist learns to expect, we had set +before us brook-trout fried in flour and bread-crumbs, +ripe brown olives which had been soaked in garlic and +oil, roast quail as plump as young chickens, an omelet +<i>à la Espagnole</i>, and heaping bowls of wild strawberries, +the whole washed down with a wine rarely seen in +America—real white Chianti. It is the very unexpectedness +of such meals which makes them stand out like +white milestones along the gastronomical highway.</p> + +<p>More Spanish in character and atmosphere even +than Santa Barbara is Monterey, three hundred miles +farther up this enchanted coast. Careless of the +changes which are being wrought about it, it lazes on +its sun-kissed hillside, its head shaded by groves of +palm and live-oak, its feet laved by the tepid waters +of the bay. The town is built on the slopes of a natural +amphitheatre, looking down upon a U-shaped harbour +containing the bluest water you ever saw. Rising +steeply behind the town is the hill where the Spanish +<i>castillo</i> used to stand, which is now surmounted by +grim, black coast-defence guns and by the yellow +barracks which house the garrison. At the foot of +Presidio Hill is the sheltered cove where Vizcaino +landed to take possession of this region in the name of +his Most Catholic Majesty of Spain, and where, years +later, Padre Serra also landed to take possession of it +in the name of a far mightier King. Here, on clear<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182"></a>[182]</span> +days, you can see on the harbour bottom the bleached +and whitened bones of the frigate <i>Natalia</i>, on which +Napoleon escaped from Elba. Down by the water-front, +where the soiled and smelly fishing-boats with +their queer lateen sails rub shoulders with the spotless, +white-hulled yachts, the old custom-house stands in +the shadow of a patriarchal cypress. It has looked on +many strange and thrilling scenes, has this balconied +building of whitewashed adobe; it has seen the high-prowed +caravels swinging at anchor in this bay with +the red-and-yellow flag of Spain drooping from their +carven sterns; it has seen the swarthy Spanish governors +reviewing their steel-capped and cuirassed +soldiery in the sun-swept plaza; it has seen the <i>fiestas</i> +and other merrymakings which marked the careless +Mexican régime; and on that July day in 1846 it +saw the marines in their leather chacoes and the blue-jackets +in their jaunty hats land from the American +frigates, saw them form in hollow square upon the +plaza, saw their weapons held rigid in burnished lines +of steel as a ball of bunting crept up the flagstaff, and +heard the roar of cheers as it broke out into a flag of +stripes and stars.</p> + +<p>In historic interest and significance this little +town of Monterey is to the West what Boston is to +the East. Here was planned the conquest of California; +here the first American flag was raised upon +the shores of the Pacific; here was the first capital and +here was held the first constitutional convention of +California. Follow Alvardo Street up the hill, between<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183"></a>[183]</span> +rows of adobe houses with pottery roofs and whitewashed +walls set in gardens aglow with roses, fuchsias, +and geraniums, to the group of historic buildings at +the top. Here you will be shown the Larkin house, +where dwelt the last American consul in California and +in which were hatched the plots which led up to the +American occupation; the picturesque home of the +last Spanish governor of the Californias; Colton Hall, +in which the first constitutional convention assembled +on the day of California’s admission to the Union; +the little one-roomed dwelling that Sherman and Halleck +occupied when they were stationed here as young +lieutenants and the other house where dwelt the beautiful +señorita whom Sherman loved long years before +he won imperishable fame beneath the eagles at Shiloh; +and, by no means least in interest, the wretched dwelling +where that immortal genius Robert Louis Stevenson +lodged for a year or more, and the little restaurant +where he took his meals, and the green pathways which +he wandered.</p> + +<p>In the edge of the town stands the church of San +Carlos, one of the best preserved mission churches of +California, whose sacristy contains the most precious +religious relics in the State; for here the priest in charge +will reverently show you Father Serra’s own chasuble, +cope, and dalmatics and the altar service of beaten +silver which was brought out for him from Spain. +The <i>padre-presidente</i> preferred Carmel over the hill +to all his other missions, however, and it was there, +where the Carmel River ripples down between the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184"></a>[184]</span> +silent willows to its mother, the sea, that he came back +to die. There, beneath the altar of the ancient mission, +his ashes lie buried in the land which his labours +transformed from a savage wilderness to a vineyard +of the Lord.</p> + +<p>From Monterey you may motor or drive or street-car +or foot it to Del Monte, which is only a mile away. +Whichever method you choose, I should take the longest +way around if I were you, so as to approach the hotel +through the glorious wild-wood by which it is enveloped. +And after you have twisted and turned for a +mile or more through a wilderness of bloom and foliage, +like the children in the story-book in search of the enchanted +castle, and after you have concluded that you +have lost your way and are ready to abandon the quest, +all unexpectedly you catch a glimpse of its red-roofed +towers and spires and gables rising above the tree +tops. Built in the Queen Anne style of thirty years +ago, huge and rambling and not unpicturesque, surrounded +by acres of lawn and the finest live-oaks I +have ever seen, it bears a quite striking resemblance to +the Gezireh Palace—now a hostelry for tourists—which +the Khedive Ismail built on an island in the Nile. Del +Monte suggests not one, but many places, however. +Its lawns and live-oaks, the perfection of which is the +result of more than a third of a century of care, in many +respects recall the famous country-seats of England, +though the vegetation, of course, is very different; +the gardens, which offer a continual feast of colour, +remind one of Cintra, outside of Lisbon, while the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185"></a>[185]</span> +cypress maze is a duplicate of that at Hampton Court. +The artificial lake, surrounded by subtropical vegetation +and approached by a palm-bordered esplanade, +has about it a suggestion of a Damascus garden that +I know, while from the golf-links—than which there are +none better in the West—looking across the tree tops +to where the white houses of Monterey overhang the +bay, it is difficult to believe that you are not on the +hill behind Mustapha Superieur, looking down upon +the white buildings of Algiers. Although Del Monte +is an enchanted garden at any time of the year, the +“high season” is in July and August, when the golfing, +polo-playing set flock down from Burlingame and San +Mateo exactly as the corresponding section of society +on the other side of the continent flocks to Newport +and Bar Harbour. During these two months the polo +field resounds to the thunder of galloping hoofs and the +click of mallet and ball; the golf-links on the rolling +downs above the sea are alive with players taking part +in the great midsummer tournament which is the most +important golfing fixture on the Pacific Coast; and in +the evenings white-shouldered women and white-shirted +men dip and whirl and glide to fervid music upon a +glassy floor or stroll amid the gardens which the light +of the summer moon and the fragrance of the flowers +transform into a fairyland.</p> + +<p>The logical way to follow El Camino Real is from +south to north, as we did, for that was the way of the +<i>padres</i>; so it was quite natural that our next stop after +leaving Monterey and its Mission of Carmel should be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186"></a>[186]</span> +at the secluded and almost forgotten Mission of San +Juan Bautista. San Juan Bautista—Saint John the +Baptist—is just such a lazy, sleepy, pretty little hamlet +as you can find at almost every turning of a Catalonian +road. Along its lanes—they are too narrow and straggling +to be dignified with the name of streets—stand +quaint adobe houses smothered in jasmine and passion-vine, +hedged in by fences of prickly pear, and shaded by +cypress and untidy eucalyptus trees. Though the plaza +up the hill, where the Spanish soldiery, and after them +the Mexican, used to parade and where the <i>fiestas</i> +used to be held, is weed-grown and lonely, it is not +deserted, for the townsfolk still go flocking to mass in +obedience to the summons of the mission bells, and, +thanks to the renaissance of the rural districts caused +by the ubiquitous motor-car, the dining-room of the +hotel, once the barracks of the Mexican garrison, is +nearly always filled with guests. Close by the hotel +is the old adobe building which served as the headquarters +of General Castro, the Mexican commander, and +back of the town rises the hill known as the Hawk’s +Nest, where Frémont and his handful of American +frontiersmen fortified themselves and defied Castro +and his soldiers to come and take them. San Juan +Bautista is a place where I could have loitered for a +week instead of a day, for who, with a spark of romance +in his soul, could resist the appeal at the top of the hotel +note-paper: “A relic of the distant past, when men +played billiards on horseback and the trees bore human +fruit”?</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187"></a>[187]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="VII">VII<br> +<span class="smaller">THE VALLEY OF HEART’S DELIGHT</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188"></a>[188]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“He touched my eyes with gladness, with balm of morning dews,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On the topmost rim He set me, ’mong the hills of Santa Cruz,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I saw the sunlit ocean sweep, I saw the vale below—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The Vale of Santa Clara in a sea of blossomed snow.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189"></a>[189]</span></p> + +<h3>VII<br> +<span class="smaller">THE VALLEY OF HEART’S DELIGHT</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>I first heard about the place from the captain +of a little coasting steamer in the Indian Ocean. +It was moonlight, I remember, and we were leaning +over the rail, watching the phosphorescent waves curl +away from the vessel’s bow. We had both seen more +than our shares of the world and we were exchanging +opinions of what we had seen over the captain’s Trichinopoli +cheroots. Perhaps it was the effect of the +moonlight on the silent waters, but I am more inclined +to think it was the brandy which his silent-footed +Swahili steward had just served us, which caused him +to grow confidential.</p> + +<p>“A few more voyages and I’m going to quit the +sea,” he remarked.</p> + +<p>“Yes?” said I interrogatively. “And what will +you do then? Get a berth as harbour master at +Shanghai or port captain at Suez or somewhere?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said he, “I’m going to build a house for +myself and the missis in a valley that I know; a house +painted white with green blinds and with a porch as +broad as a ship’s deck, and I’m going to have a fruit +orchard and a flower garden with red geraniums in it, +and I’m going to raise chickens—white Wyandottes, +I think, but I’m not quite certain.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190"></a>[190]</span></p> + +<p>“Of all things!” I ejaculated. “My imagination +isn’t elastic enough for me to picture an old sea-dog +like you settled down in a white farmhouse raising +fruit and chickens. Where is all this going to be?”</p> + +<p>“In the Santa Clara,” said he.</p> + +<p>“It sounds like the name of a Pullman car or a +tune in the hymn-book,” said I.</p> + +<p>“It’s neither,” said he; “it’s a valley in California.”</p> + +<p>“Tell me about it,” I suggested.</p> + +<p>“I can’t,” said he. “It’s too beautiful—in the +spring the whole valley is a sea of blossoms, like cherry +season in Japan; and beyond are green hillsides that +might be those of Devonshire; and looming up back +of the hills are great brown-and-purple mountains that +look like those at the back of Cintra, in Portugal (that’s +some place, too, believe <i>me</i>); and there is always the +smell of flowers in the air, such as you get in Bulgaria +in the attar-of-rose season; and I’ve never seen a sky +as blue anywhere else except in the Ægean; and——”</p> + +<p>“That’s enough,” I interrupted. “That’s where +I’m going next. Any place that will make a hardened +old sea captain become poetical must be worth seeing.”</p> + +<p class="tb">Months later, in Algiers, I found myself sitting +at a small iron table on a sun-bathed terrace overlooking +the orange-and-olive-and-palm-fringed shores of +the Mediterranean. There are only five views to equal +it in all the world. As I sat gazing out across the +waters toward France a fellow countryman strolled up<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191"></a>[191]</span> +and dropped into the seat beside me. I knew that he +was an American by the width of his hat brim and +because he didn’t wait for an introduction.</p> + +<p>“Fine morning,” I remarked pleasantly. “Wonderful +view from this terrace, isn’t it? And the sunshine +is very warm and cheering.”</p> + +<p>“Pretty fair,” he assented gloomily; “pretty fair +for this place. But in the part of the world I come +from fine mornings and wonderful views and sunshine +are so darned common that it never occurs to us to +mention them.”</p> + +<p>“Where is your home, may I ask?” I inquired, +for want of anything better to say.</p> + +<p>“In the Santa Clara Valley of California,” he +answered proudly. “God’s favourite country, sir! He +took more pains with it than any place he ever made, +not even barring the original Eden. This is a very +pleasing little view, I admit; a very pleasing one, but +I wish I could take you up on the slopes of Mount Hamilton +just before sunset and let you look across the +valley to Los Gatos when the prune orchards are in +blossom. As for the climate, why, say, my friend——”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes, I know,” I said soothingly, for when a +man gets a lump in his throat while talking about his +native land it’s time to change the topic of conversation. +“I know; I’ve heard all about it before. Fact +is, I’m on my way there now.”</p> + +<p>“You <i>are</i>?” he exclaimed incredulously, and, +leaning back in his chair, he clapped his hands until +the Arab waiter came running. “Garsong,” said he,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192"></a>[192]</span> +“bring us a bottle of the best wine you’ve got.” When +the amber fluid was level with the rims we touched +our glasses:</p> + +<p>“It’s poor stuff compared with the wine we make +in California,” he said, “but it’ll do to drink a toast +in.” He stood up, bareheaded and very straight, as +British officers do when they drink to the king.</p> + +<p>“Friend,” said he, and his voice was husky, “here’s +to God’s favourite valley—here’s to the Santa Clara.”</p> + +<p class="tb">If you go to the Santa Clara when I did, which +was in March, when the unfortunates who live beyond +the Sierra Nevada are still waking up to find ice in +their water-pitchers, you will find that the people of +the valley are celebrating the Feast of the Blossoms. +It is a very beautiful festival, in which every man, +woman, and child in this fifty-mile-long garden of +fruit and flowers takes part, but you cannot appreciate +its true significance until you have climbed to a point +on the slopes of the mountains which form the garden +wall, where the whole enchanting panorama lies before +you. Did you ever see one hundred and twenty-five +square miles of trees in snow-white blossom at one time? +No, of course not, for nowhere else in all the world can +such a sight be seen. I, who have listened to the voice +of spring on five continents and in more than five-score +countries, assure you that it is worth the seeing.</p> + +<p>Personally, I shall always think of the Santa +Clara as a sleeping maiden, fragrant with perfume and +intoxicatingly beautiful, lying in a carven bed formed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193"></a>[193]</span> +by the mountains of Santa Cruz, curtained by fleecy +clouds, her coverlet of eiderdown tinted with rose, +quilted with green, edged with yellow; her pillow the +sun-kissed waters of San Francisco Bay. When you +come closer, however, you find that the coverlet which +conceals her gracious form is in reality an expanse of +fragrant blossoms; that the green tufts are the live-oaks +which rise at intervals above the orchards of cherry, +peach, and prune; and that the yellow edging is the +California poppies which clothe the encircling hills.</p> + +<p>Sentimentally and commercially it is fitting that +the people of the Santa Clara Valley should celebrate +the coming of the blossoms, for they are at once its +chief beauty and its chief wealth. In a single season +these white and fragrant blossoms have provided the +breakfast tables of the world with one hundred and +thirty million pounds of prunes, to say nothing of those +luscious pears, peaches, cherries, and apricots which +beckon temptingly from grocers’ windows and hotel +buffets from Salt Lake City around to Shanghai. No +other single fruit of any region, not even the fig of +Smyrna, the date of Tunis, the olive of Spain, or the +currant of Greece, is so widely distributed as the prune +of the Santa Clara Valley. The people of the valley +will assure you very earnestly that the reason their +wives and daughters have such lovely complexions is +because they make it a point to eat prunes every morning +for breakfast. Whether due to the prunes or not, +I can vouch for the complexions.</p> + +<p>Barring the coast of Tripolitania, where it is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194"></a>[194]</span> +harvest time all the year round, but where the Arabs +are offering no inducements to settlers, and the Imperial +Valley, whose summer heat makes it undesirable as a +place of permanent residence, the Santa Clara Valley +has more crops, through more months of the year, than +any place I know. Ceres makes her annual appearance +in February with artichokes—the ones that are +priced at a dollar a portion on the menus of New +York’s fashionable hotels; in March the people of +the valley are having spring peas with their lamb +chops; April brings strawberries, although, as a matter +of fact, they are to be had almost every month of the +year; in May the cherry pickers are at work; the local +churches hold peaches-and-cream sociables in June; by +the ides of July the valley roads are alive with teams +hauling cases of pears, plums, and apricots to the +railway stations; August, being the month of prunes, +is marked with red on the Santa Clara calendars; +September finds the presses working overtime turning +grapes into wine, and the prohibitionists likewise working +overtime trying to turn “wet” communities into +“dry” ones; in October the men are at work in the +orchards picking apples and the women are at work +in the kitchens baking apple pies; the huge English +walnuts which wind up dinners half the world around +are harvested in November; while in December and +January the prodigal goddess interrupts her bounty +just long enough to let the fortunate worshippers +at her shrine observe the midwinter holidays. After +such a recital it is almost needless to add that the valley<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195"></a>[195]</span> +boasts both the largest fruit-drying houses and the +largest fruit canneries in the world, for in the Santa +Clara they dry what they can and can what they can’t.</p> + +<p>The <i>chef-lieu</i> of the valley is San José. It may +interest Easterners to know that Don Caspar de +Portola and his men, marching up from the south in +their search for the lost Bay of Monterey, had looked +down from the valley’s mountain rim upon the spot +where the city now stands four years before the Boston +Tea Party; while that indomitable Franciscan, Father +Junipero Serra, had established the great Mission San +José, and was hard at work Christianising and teaching +the Indians of this region before the ink was fairly +dry on the Declaration of Independence and while +the three thousand miles of country which lies between +the valley of the Santa Clara and the valley of the Connecticut +was still an unexplored wilderness. The last +time that the gentlemen with the census books knocked +at San José’s front doors they reported that the city +had forty thousand people, and it keeps agrowing and +agrowing. It has about four times as many stores as +any place of its size that I can recall, but that is because +the local merchants depend on the trade of the +rural rather than the urban population, for the hardy +frontiersmen who rough it in this portion of the West +run in to do their shopping by automobile or trolley-car +or else give their orders over the telephone. There +are two things about the city which I shall remember. +One is the street-cars, which have open decks forward +and aft, with seats running along them lengthwise,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196"></a>[196]</span> +on which the passengers sit with their feet hanging +over the side, as though on an Irish jaunting-car. +In pleasant weather the display of ankles on the street-car +makes them look, from the sidewalks, like moving +hosiery advertisements. The other municipal feature +which riveted my attention was a sort of attenuated +Eiffel Tower, sliced off about half-way up, which straddles +the two main streets of the city at their intersection, +and from the top of which a powerful search-light +signals to the traveller on the valley highroads, to the +shepherd on the mountains, to the fisherman on San +Francisco Bay: “Here is San José.”</p> + +<p>If there is anywhere a royal road to learning, it is +the fifty-mile-long one which meanders up the Santa +Clara Valley, for there are more schoolhouses scattered +along it than there are milestones, and they’re +not the little red schoolhouses of which our grandfathers +brag, either. Every time our motor-car swung +around the corner of a prune orchard we were pretty +certain to find a schoolhouse of concrete, usually in +the overworked mission style of architecture, with +roses and honeysuckle and wistaria clambering over +the door. The youngster who wants to travel the royal +road to knowledge can commence his journey in one of +the concrete schoolhouses at Gilroy, which is at the +southern portal of the valley; the second stage will +take him up to the great high school at San José, +which is so extensive and handsome and completely +equipped that it would make certain famous Eastern +colleges feel shamefaced and embarrassed; the final<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197"></a>[197]</span> +stage along this intellectual highway is only eighteen +miles in length and ends at Palo Alto, amid whose live-oaks +rise the yellow towers and red-tiled roofs of that +great university which Leland Stanford, statesman and +railway builder, founded in memory of the son he lost, +and which he endowed with the whole of his enormous +fortune. He gave the eight thousand acres of his +famous stock-farm for the purpose, and to-day white-gowned +“co-eds” wander, book in hand, where the +paddocks once stood, and spike-shod sprinters dash +down the track, where the great mare Sunol used to +put close on half a mile a minute behind her spinning +sulky wheels. It is one of the great universities of +the world, is Leland Stanford, Jr., and, with its cloistered +quadrangles, its wonderful mosaic façades, and +its semitropical surroundings, certainly one of the +most beautiful. It stands, fittingly enough, at the +valley’s northern gateway and at the end, both literally +and metaphorically, of the royal road to learning; +so that the valley-bred youth who passes through its +doors with his sheepskin in his pocket finds himself +on the threshold of that great outside world for which, +without leaving his native valley, he has been admirably +prepared.</p> + +<p>Speaking of roads, they have built one running +the length of the State and, therefore, of the Santa +Clara Valley, which would cause Mr. John MacAdam, +were he still in the land of the living, to lift his hat in +admiration. It is really a restoration of El Camino +Real, that historic highway which the Spanish conquistadores<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198"></a>[198]</span> +built, close on a century and a half ago, +for the purpose of linking up the one-and-twenty missions +which the indefatigable Padre Serra flung the +length of California as outposts of the church, and which +did more to open up the Pacific Coast to civilisation +and colonisation and commerce than any undertaking +save the construction of the Southern Pacific. Were +this highway in the East I am perfectly sure that they +would cheapen it by calling it the Shore Road or the +State Pike, but it speaks well for California’s appreciation +of the picturesque and the appropriate that she +has decided to cling to the historic name of El Camino +Real—the Royal Road—the King’s Highway.</p> + +<p>Although the Santa Clara Valley, properly speaking, +ends at Palo Alto, the ultrafashionable colonies +of Burlingame, San Mateo, and Hillsboro may, for the +purposes of this chapter, at least, be considered as +within its compass. These are to the Pacific Coast +what Lenox and Tuxedo are to the Eastern world of +fashion: places where the rich dwell in great country +houses set far back in splendid parks, with none but +their fellow millionaires for neighbours and with every +convenience for sport close at hand. Full of colour and +animation are the scenes at their ivy-covered stations +when the afternoon trains from San Francisco pull in; +for here, at least, the motor-car has not ousted the +horse from his old-time popularity, and the gravelled +driveways are alive with tandem carts and runabouts +and spider phaetons, with smart grooms in whipcord +liveries and leather gaiters standing rigidly at the heads<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199"></a>[199]</span> +of the horses. Probably the finest examples of architecture +in California are to be seen in the neighbourhood +of Burlingame and San Mateo, the only other communities +which can rival them in this respect being Montecito, +near Santa Barbara, Oak Knoll, outside of Pasadena, +and Hollywood, a suburb of Los Angeles.</p> + +<p>The East and, for that matter, all of the rest of +America owe California a debt of gratitude for her development +of a native domestic architecture. The first +true homes for folk of real culture but moderate incomes +were produced on the Pacific Coast. In the type of +house that abounds to-day in California comfort, tradition, +and art have been skilfully and interestingly combined. +Based on the old missions, which in their turn +drew inspiration from the ideals of the Spaniard and +the Moor, modern Californian architecture has nevertheless +made servants, not masters, of those traditions. +Though drawing from the romantic background of the +conquistadores and the <i>padres</i> the sturdy spirit, the +simple lines, and the practical details of the old frontier +buildings, the main virtue of these Californian homes +is that they possess a definite relation to the soil and +climate and the habits of the people. But, though +back of each design lurks the motive of the Spanish +missions, there is no monotony, no sameness; but, on +the contrary, a remarkable variety of design. Each +possesses the characteristic features of the Californian +home: the low, wide-spreading roof lines, the solid +walls, generally of concrete or plaster, the frank use +of structural beams, the luxurious spaces of veranda<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200"></a>[200]</span> +and balcony, the tiled terraces and pottery roofs, the +cool, inviting patios, and the quiet loveliness of the +interiors. It is true, of course, that many house-builders +have been unable to resist the temptation of +Colonial, Norman, Dutch, and Tudor, but, as their +culture increases, Californians are fast realising that +an architecture designed for inhospitable climates is +utterly incongruous in California’s semitropical surroundings.</p> + +<p>It rained one of the days that I spent in San José, +and my genial host was so apologetic about it that I +actually felt sorry for him. Though rain is seldom +unwelcome in a horticultural country, the residents +don’t like to have it come down in bucketfuls when +visitors whom they are anxious to impress with the +perfection of their climate are around. They are as +proud of their climate in the Santa Clara Valley as a +boy is of “his first long pants,” and to back up their +boasts the residents carry in their pockets the blue +slips of the Government Weather Bureau’s monthly reports +to show the stranger. I’m not fond of figures, unless +they happen to be on cheques drawn in my favour, +but I was impressed by the fact, nevertheless, that +in 1913 the valley had only fifty-eight cloudy days, +sixty-four which were overcast, and two hundred and +thirty-four in which there was not a cloud to dim the +turquoise of the sky. Carrying my investigations a +little further, I found that during the greater part of +February, which is the coldest month of the year, the +mercury remained above 55, only four times dropping<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201"></a>[201]</span> +as low as 33, while there were only four days in August +when the thermometer needle crept up to 79, and +once in the same month it fell as low as 42, thus giving +a solar-plexus blow to the idea stubbornly held by most +Easterners that in summer California is an anteroom +to Hades.</p> + +<p>To this unvarying geniality of the climate and to +the careless, happy-go-lucky, pleasure-loving strain +handed down from the Spanish and Argonaut pioneers +are due the invincible gaiety and the passionate love +for the out-of-doors which are among the most likeable +characteristics of the Californians. One of the first +things that strikes an Eastern visitor is the fact that +the Californians can always find time for amusement, +and they enter into those amusements with the enthusiasm +and the whole-souled gaiety of children. On +the Pacific Coast recreation is considered quite as +important as business—and business does not suffer, +either. There is about these Californian merrymakings +an abandon, a joyousness, a childlike freedom from +restraint which is in striking contrast to the restrained, +self-conscious pleasures of the older, colder East. To +the colourful <i>fiestas</i> of the Spanish and Mexican eras +may be traced the out-of-door festivities which play so +large a part in the life of the people on the Pacific +Coast, such as the midwinter Tournament of Roses at +Pasadena, the Portola Festival with which the San +Franciscans celebrate the discovery of San Francisco +Bay, the Feast of the Blossoms held each spring in +the Santa Clara Valley, the Battle of Flowers which,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202"></a>[202]</span> +until very recently, was a feature of life at Santa +Barbara, but which, for some unexplainable reason, has +been abandoned, the Rose Festival at Portland, the +Potlatch at Seattle. Under much the same category +are the classic plays given in the wonderful Greek Theatre +at the University of California, the sylvan masks +produced by the colony of authors and artists at Carmel-by-the-Sea, +and the Bohemian Club’s celebrated Grove +Play.</p> + +<p>No account of Californian festivals is in any way +complete without at least a brief description of the +last named, which is characterised by a beauty of +production and a dignity of treatment that make it +in many respects an American Bayreuth. For forty +years the Bohemian Club of San Francisco has gone +into the California redwoods each summer for a +fortnight’s outing. This famous club, founded in 1872 +by a coterie of actors, newspaper men, and artists, now +has a membership of upward of thirteen hundred, +representing all that is best in the art, music, literature, +drama, and science of the West. No one may become +a member who has not achieved a distinction of sorts +in one of these fields, the anticommercial spirit which +animates the club being aptly expressed by the quotation +at the top of its note-paper: “Weaving spiders +come not here.” The Bohemian Grove, which consists +of about three hundred acres of forest and contains +some of the finest redwood giants in California, stands +on the banks of the Russian River, ninety miles to the +north of San Francisco. The stately redwoods stand<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203"></a>[203]</span> +in a gentle ravine whose floor and slopes in the rainless +midsummer are bright with the canvas of the club +encampment, which resembles a sort of sylvan Durbar; +for the camps, many of which are elaborately arranged +and furnished, are made of canvas in the gayest colours—scarlet +and white, green and white, blue and yellow—with +flags and banners and gorgeous Oriental lanterns +everywhere. Here, during the first two weeks in every +August, congregate close on a thousand men who have +done things—authors of “best sellers,” builders of +bridges and dams and lighthouses and aqueducts, +painters whose pictures hang on the line at the Paris +Salon or on the walls of the Luxembourg, composers +of famous operas, writers of plays which have made a +hit on Broadway, presidents of transcontinental railway +systems, celebrated singers, men who have penetrated +to the remotest corners of the earth—wearing +the dress of the woods, calling each other “Bill” or +“Jim” or “Harry” as the case may be, and becoming, +for the time being, boys once more. A steep side of +the ravine forms the “back-drop” of the forest stage, +the spectators—no woman has ever taken part in the +play or witnessed an original performance—sitting +on redwood logs under the stars. The Grove Play is an +evolution from a simpler programme, which was originally +known as “High Jinks.” It is now a serious composition, +with music, largely symbolical in character, +created entirely by members of the club, in which +many artists of international fame have taken part, +always in the amateur spirit.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204"></a>[204]</span></p> + +<p>But to return to our Valley of the Santa Clara. +In the Panhandle of Texas a ranch usually means anywhere +from five thousand acres upward of uncultivated +land; in the Santa Clara a ranch means anywhere from +five acres upward of the most highly cultivated soil +in the world. East of the Sierra Nevada, where +scientific fertilisation and intensive cultivation are still +wearing short dresses, five acres are scarcely worth considering, +but five acres in California, properly planted +and cared for, ofttimes supports a family in something +akin to luxury. I had pointed out to me in the Santa +Clara Valley at least a score of small holdings which +yield their owners annually in the neighbourhood of +five hundred dollars an acre. All of these hardy pioneers +have telephones and electric lights and electric +power for pumping and daily newspaper and mail +deliveries. When they have any business in town, +instead of going down to the corral and roping a bronco, +they either stroll through the orchard and hail an +electric car or they crank up the family automobile.</p> + +<p>While I was in the Santa Clara Valley I asked a +number of those questions to which every prospective +home seeker wants to know the answers. I found that +improved land, planted to prune, apricot, or peach +trees old enough to bear, can be had all the way from +four hundred to seven hundred dollars an acre, according +to its location. At a conservative estimate this +land, so I was told by a banker whose business it is to +lend money on it (and you can trust a banker for never +being oversanguine), can be depended upon to yield<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205"></a>[205]</span> +an income of from one hundred to three hundred dollars +an acre, it being by no means an unusual thing for +a well-managed ranch to pay for itself in two or three +years. I found that a ten-acre orchard—which is +quite large enough for one man to handle—could be +had for five thousand dollars, the purchaser paying, +say, two thousand dollars down and carrying the +balance on a mortgage at seven per cent, which is the +legal rate of interest in California. The local building +and loan associations would lend him two thousand +dollars to build with, which he could repay, at the rate +of twenty-four dollars a month, in ten years. Two +thousand dollars, I might add, will build an extremely +attractive and comfortable six-room bungalow, for the +two chief sources of expense to the Eastern home +builder—cellars and furnaces—are not necessary in +California. Such a place, provided its owner has +horse sense, is not afraid of work, and knows good +advice when he hears it, should yield from fifteen +hundred to two thousand dollars a year, in addition to +which the whole family can find ready employment, +at excellent wages, in the orchards or packing-houses +during the fruit season. For this work a man receives +from two dollars to two dollars and a half a day and +can count on fairly steady employment through at +least eight months of the year, while many women and +girls, whose deft fingers make them particularly valuable +in the work of wrapping and packing the finer +grades of fruit, can earn as high as twenty dollars a +week during the busy season. This work, I might add,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206"></a>[206]</span> +attracts an altogether exceptional class of people, for +university and high-school students and the wives and +daughters of small ranchers eagerly avail themselves +of this opportunity to add to their incomes, the fruit +orchards, during the picking season, looking less like +a hive of workers than like a gigantic picnic among the +shaded orchard rows, in which the whole countryside +is taking part.</p> + +<p>The air in the Santa Clara Valley is said to be +the clearest in the world, though they tell you exactly +the same thing at Colorado Springs, and in the +Grand Cañon of Arizona, and at Las Vegas, N. Mex. +The Santa Clara air is clear enough, however, for all +practical purposes. In fact, its extraordinary clarity +sometimes lends itself to extraordinary uses. I have a +friend whose residence is set on a hillside high on the +valley’s eastern rim. One day, idly scanning the distant +landscape through his field-glasses, he noted that +the field hands employed on the ranch of a neighbour +on the opposite hillside, twenty odd miles away, +knowing that they could not be observed by their +employer, were loafing in the shade instead of working. +My friend called up his neighbour by telephone and +told him that his men were soldiering, whereupon +that gentleman rode up the hillside and gave his +astonished employees such a tongue-lashing that when +the six-o’clock whistle blew that night they had blisters +on their hands.</p> + +<p>Lack of labour is one of the most serious problems +with which the fruit-growers of California have had to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207"></a>[207]</span> +contend, though it is believed that this will be remedied, +in some measure at least, by the flood of European +immigration which will pour through the Panama Canal. +Twenty years ago the labour problem was solved by +the Chinaman, who was the most industrious and +dependable labourer California has ever had, but with +the agitation which resulted in closing our doors to +the Celestial most of the Chinese in California entered +domestic service and now command such high wages—fifty +dollars a month is the average wage of a Chinese +house boy or cook—that only the well-to-do can afford +to employ them. Time and again I have heard clear-headed +Californians of all classes assert that the admission, +under certain restrictions, of a hundred +thousand selected Chinese would prove an unqualified +blessing for California. The relentless war waged by +California—or, rather, by the labour element of California—against +the admission of Chinese immigrants +was based on the difference in the standard of living. +The yellow man could live in something very akin to +luxury on about a tenth of the ration required for a +white man’s support. In other words, the Chinaman +could outstarve the white man; therefore the Chinaman +must go. And there has never been any one to +take his place.</p> + +<p>Outside of the Pacific Coast the impression seems +to prevail that the Chinaman’s place has been taken +by the Japanese. This is not so. To begin with, Japanese +labour is not cheap labour. The Japanese do +not work for less pay than white men, unless it be temporarily,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208"></a>[208]</span> +so as to obtain the white man’s job. Japanese +house cleaners and gardeners demand and receive a +minimum wage of thirty-five cents an hour, and in +California, where most people of modest means are +compelled to do their own housework because of the +scarcity of and exorbitant wages demanded by domestic +servants, housewives are thankful to get Japanese by +the day at any price. Their standard of living is as +high as that of other nationalities; much higher, in +fact, than that of peoples from southern Europe. +There is no pauperism among them and astonishingly +little crime. They dress well, eat well, spend money +lavishly for entertainment. But the Jap, unlike the +Chinaman, “talks back.” He is not in the least impressed +by the American’s claim of racial superiority. +In fact, he considers himself very much better than the +white man and, if the opportunity presents itself, +does not hesitate to say so. He is patronising instead +of patronised. He has proved that he is the white +man’s equal in every line of industry and in some his +superior. Three times in succession a Japanese grower +has virtually cornered the potato crop of the Pacific +Coast. The Japanese has driven the Greek and the +Portuguese out of the fishing industry, in which they +believed that they were impregnably intrenched. As +a result of these things he steps off the sidewalk for no +one. He knows that back of him stands a great empire, +with a powerful fleet and one of the most efficient +armies in existence, and he takes no pains to disguise +this knowledge in his relations with the white man.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209"></a>[209]</span></p> + +<p>To tell the truth, the prohibition of land ownership, +the segregation of school children are but pretexts +put forward by a jealous and resentful white +population to teach the yellow man his place. The +assertion that Japanese ownership of land is a menace +to white domination is the veriest nonsense, and every +Californian knows it. There are ninety-nine million +acres in California and of this area the Japanese own or +lease barely thirty thousand acres, or <i>twelve hundredths +of one per cent</i>. The fifty-eight thousand Japanese in +California form but two and one half per cent of the +total population. These figures, which are authoritative, +are not very menacing, are they? The bulk +of the Japanese reside in Los Angeles County and in +the delta of the Sacramento and San Joaquin Rivers, +where they work gigantic potato fields and truck-gardens +and asparagus beds. Now, Los Angeles, mind +you, has never demanded Japanese exclusion. Protests +poured into Sacramento from the white settlers +of the delta country against the passage of the anti-alien +land laws. Why, then, you ask, does the entire +Pacific Coast, including British Columbia, exhibit such +intense dislike for the Jap? Because, as I have said, +he has shown that he can beat the white man at his own +game; because he is not in the least meek and humble +as befits an alien and “inferior” race; because he +believes in his heart that in an armed conflict Nippon +could whip the United States as thoroughly as she +whipped China and Russia; because, as a result of +this belief, he perpetually swaggers about with his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210"></a>[210]</span> +hat cocked on one side and a chip perched invitingly +on his shoulder; because, in short, his very manner is +a constant irritation to the Californians. And until +the status of the Japanese upon the Pacific Coast +is definitely and finally established by international +treaty this irritation may be expected to continue +and to increase.</p> + +<p class="tb">I wonder if sometimes, at that sunset hour when +the lengthening shadows of the hills fall athwart the +blossoming orchards, there do not wander through +the Santa Clara those whom the eyes of mortals cannot +see—Portola, swart of face under his steel cap, +come back to feast his eyes once more, from the top +of yonder hill, on that fertile valley which he was the +first white man to see; Father Serra, mild-mannered +and gentle-voiced, trudging the dusty highroad in his +sandals and woollen robe, pausing to kneel in prayer +as the bells boom out the Angelus from that mission +which he founded; Captain Jedediah Smith, the first +of the pathfinders, a strange and romantic figure in +his garb of fringed buckskin, leaning on his long rifle +as he looks down on the homesteads of the thousands +who followed by the trail he blazed across the ranges; +Stanford, who linked the oceans with twin lines of +steel, pacing the campus of that great seat of learning +which he conceived and built—guardian spirits, all, +of that valley for which they did so much and which +they loved so well.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211"></a>[211]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="VIII">VIII<br> +<span class="smaller">THE MODERN ARGONAUTS</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212"></a>[212]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“For once you’ve panned the speckled sand and seen the bonny dust,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Its peerless brightness blinds you like a spell;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It’s little else you care about; you go because you must,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And you feel that you could follow it to hell.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You’d follow it in hunger, and you’d follow it in cold;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">You’d follow it in solitude and pain;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And when you’re stiff and battened down let some one whisper ‘Gold,’</div> + <div class="verse indent2">You’re lief to rise and follow it again.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213"></a>[213]</span></p> + +<h3>VIII<br> +<span class="smaller">THE MODERN ARGONAUTS</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>I once knew an Englishman and his wife who were +possessed with a mania for things Egyptian. +Some people were unkind enough to say that they were +“dotty” on the subject, but that was an exaggeration. +They knew all there was to know about Egyptian +customs from the days of Amenhotep to those of Abbas +Hilmi; they had delved in the sand-smothered ruins +across the river from Luxor; they could converse as +fluently in the degraded patois of the native coffee-houses +as in the classic Arabic spoken at the University +of El Azhar. Their chief regret in life was that +they had not been born Egyptians. Their names were—but +never mind; it is enough to say that they had +coronets on their visiting cards and owned more fertile +acres in Devonshire than an absentee landlord has +any right to possess. Whenever they came to Cairo, +which they did regularly at the beginning of the +cold weather, they could never be induced to take +the comfortable motor-bus which the management of +Shepheard’s Hotel thoughtfully provides for its guests—at +ten piastres the trip. Instead, they would wire +ahead to have a couple of camels meet them at the +station, and, perched atop of these ungainly and uncomfortable<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214"></a>[214]</span> +beasts, would amble down the Sharia +Kamel, which is the Fifth Avenue of Cairo, and dismount +with great pomp and ceremony in front of +their hotel to the delectation of the tourists assembled +upon its terrace. I once asked them why they chose +this outlandish mode of conveyance when there were a +score or so of perfectly good taxicabs whose vociferously +importunate drivers were only awaiting a signal +to push down their little red flags and set their taximeters +whirring.</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s this way,” was the answer. “We’re +jolly fond of everything Egyptian, y’ know. Sort of +steeped ourselves, as you might say, in the country’s +history and politics and customs and language and all +that sort of thing. This city is so romantic and picturesque +that a motor-car seems to be inappropriate +and unfitting—like wearing a top hat in the country, +y’ know. So we always have the camels meet us—yes. +All bally nonsense, I suppose, but it sort of keeps us +in the spirit of the place—makes us feel as though we +were living in the good old days before the tourist +Johnnies came and spoiled it all. Same idea that +Vanderbilt has in driving his coach from London down +to Brighton. You can make the trip by train in half +the time and for half the money and much more comfortably, +but you lose the spirit of the old coaching +days—the atmosphere, as the painter fellows call it. +Rum sort of an idea to use camels instead of taxis, +perhaps, but we like it and that’s the chief thing after +all, isn’t it? What?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215"></a>[215]</span></p> + +<p>That was precisely the frame of mind which caused +us to disregard the one hundred and twenty-five miles +of oiled highway which reaches, like a strip of hotel +linoleum, from San Francisco to the Californian +capital, and load ourselves, together with our six-cylindered +Pegasus, aboard the stern-wheel river boat +which leaves the Pacific Street wharf for Sacramento +at half past eight on every week-day morning. That +section of our Mexico-to-Alaska journey which lay +immediately before us, you must understand, led +through a region which is indelibly associated with +“the days of old, the days of gold, the days of ’Forty-Nine,” +and to storm through it in a prosaic, panting +motor-car seemed to us as incompatible with the spirit +of romance which enshrouds it as it would to race +through the canals of Venice in a gasoline launch. +Feeling as we did about it, the consistent thing, I +suppose, would have been to have hired a creaking +prairie-schooner and plodded overland to the mines in +true emigrant fashion, but as the few prairie-schooners +still extant in California have fallen into the hands of +the moving-picture concerns, who work them overtime, +we compromised by journeying up to the gold country +by river boat, just as the Argonauts who came round +the Horn to San Francisco were wont to do.</p> + +<p>Whoever was responsible for dubbing the Sacramento +River trip “the Netherlands Route” could have +had but a bowing acquaintance with Holland. I don’t +like to shatter illusions, but, to be quite truthful, the +banks of the Sacramento are as unlike the Low Countries<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216"></a>[216]</span> +as anything well could be. The only thing they +have in common are the dikes or levees which border +the streams and the truck-gardens which form a +patchwork quilt of vegetation behind them. The Dutch +waterways are, for the most part, small, insignificant +affairs, third or fourth cousins to the Erie Canal, and +so narrow that you can sling your hat across them. +The Sacramento River, on the contrary, is a great +maritime thoroughfare four hundred miles in length +and navigable for three quarters of that distance, +being fourth among the rivers of the United States in +tonnage carried. From the deck of a Dutch canal-boat +you cannot see a mountain, or anything which +could be called a mountain by courtesy, with a telescope. +Look in whichever direction you will from a +Sacramento River boat and you cannot escape them. +Even at night you can descry the great walls of the +Coast and Sierra Nevada Ranges looming black +against a purple-velvet sky. And the racing windmills +with their weather-beaten sails—the most characteristic +note in a Dutch landscape—are not there at all. +It’s rather a pity, it seems to me, that Californians +persist in this slap-dash custom of labelling the natural +beauties for which their State is famous with European +tags. Why, in the name of heaven, should that enchanted +littoral which stretches from Coronado to +Monterey be called “Our Italy”? Why should the +seaward slopes of the Santa Ynez Range, at the back of +Santa Barbara—a region which is Spanish in history, +language, and tradition—be dubbed “the Riviera”?<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217"></a>[217]</span> +Why should Santa Barbara itself, for that matter, be +called “the American Mentone”? Is there a single +sound reason why the majestic grandeur of the Sierra +Nevada should be cheapened by labelling it “the +American Alps”? No, not one. And it seems to me, +as a visitor, a travesty to nickname the Sacramento, a +river as long and as commercially important as the +Seine and draining the greatest agricultural valley in +the world, “the Netherlands Route”—because, forsooth +portions of its banks are protected against +overflow by levees. Compare the wonders of California +to those of Europe by all means, if you will, +and nine times out of ten they will emerge victorious +from the comparison; but for goodness’ sake don’t +saddle them with names which in themselves imply +secondariness.</p> + +<p>The Sacramento is a river of romance. To those +conversant with the stirring story of early California, +its every bend and reach and landing-place recalls +some episode of those mad days when the news that a +man had discovered yellow gravel in a Sierran mill-race +spread like a forest-fire across the land, and the +needy, the desperate, and the adventurous came pouring +into California by boat and wagon-train. About +it still hover memories of the days when this river of +dikes ran between high banks; when the great valley +to which it gives its name was as unsettled and unknown +as the basin of the Upper Congo; when Sacramento, +then but a cluster of tents about a log stockade, +was an outpost on the firing-line of civilisation. This<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218"></a>[218]</span> +winding stream was the last stage in the long journey +of those gold hunters who came round the Horn in +their stampede to the mines. The river voyage was +one of dreams and doubts, of hopes and fears. At +every landing where the steamer touched were heard +reports of new bonanzas found in the Sierran gulches, +of gold strikes on the river bars, of mountain brooks +whose beds were aglitter with the precious ore. Returning +down this same river, as time went on, were +the booted, bearded, brown-faced men who were going +home—ah, happy word!—after having “made their +pile” and those others who had staked and lost their +all.</p> + +<p>The river trip of to-day gives graphic proof of +the changes which threescore years have wrought; it +shows that agriculture, not mining, is now the basis +of the State’s prosperity, just as it must be the basis +of every civilisation which is to endure. The interest +commenced at the journey’s very start. Swinging +out from the unending procession of ferries which +form, as it were, a Brooklyn Bridge between Oakland +and San Francisco, we churned our way under the +cliffs of Alcatraz, the white-walled prison perched upon +its summit looking for all the world like the sea-fowl for +which this penal isle is named. Though Alcatraz may +lack the legendary interest which attaches to the Château +d’If, that rocky islet in the harbour of Marseilles +where the Count of Monte Cristo was imprisoned, it +is no less picturesque, particularly at sunset, when the +expiring rays of the drowning sun, striking through<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219"></a>[219]</span> +the portals of the Golden Gate, transform it into a +lump of rosy coral rising from a peacock sea. Off our +port bow Tamalpais, a weary colossus wrapped in a +cape of shaggy green, looked meditatively down upon +the heedless city as, seated upon the hills, he laved his +feet—the Marin and Tiburon Peninsulas—in the cooling +waters of the bay. Keeping well to the eastern +shore, where the lead shows seven fathoms clear, we +skirted the city’s shipping front, where fishing-boats, +their hulls painted the bright hues the Latins love, and +some—the Greek-owned ones—with great goggle eyes +at their bows (the better to detect the fish, of course), +were slipping seaward like mallards on the wing. To +starboard lay the shores of Contra Costa County +(meaning, as you doubtless surmise, “the opposite +coast”), the long brown fingers of its innumerable +wharfs reaching out into the bay as though beckoning +to the merchantmen to come alongside and take +aboard the cargoes—oil, wine, lumber, grain, cheese, +fruit—which had been produced in the chimneyed +factories that fringe this coast or raised in the fertile +valleys which form its hinterland. Crossing over to +the port rail as our steamer poked its stubby nose into +the narrow Straits of Carquinez, we could make out +Mare Island Navy Yard with the fighting craft in +their coats of elephant grey riding lazily at anchor in +front of it, while against the hill slopes at the back +snuggled the white houses of Vallejo, the former capital. +Our first stop was at Benicia, on the right bank +of the Carquinez Straits, which lie directly athwart<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220"></a>[220]</span> +the Overland Route to the East and are familiar to +transcontinental travellers as the place where their +entire train, from engine to observation-car, is loaded +on a titanic ferry. This was the home of Heenan, the +“Benicia Boy,” the blacksmith who fought his way +upward to the heavyweight championship of the +world, and the forge hammer he used is still proudly +preserved here as a memento of the brawny youngster +who linked the drowsy village with a certain brand of +fame. Benicia succeeded Vallejo as the capital of +California, and the old State House where the Argonaut +lawmakers held their uproarious sessions still +stands as a monument to the town’s one-time importance, +which departed when its parvenu neighbour, +Sacramento, offered the State a cool million in gold for +the honour of being its capital.</p> + +<p>Leaving sleepy Benicia, with its memories of prize-fighters +and lawmakers, in our wake, we debouched +quite suddenly into Suisun Bay (suggestive of Japan +and the geisha girls, isn’t it?) with the Suisun marshes +just beyond. You will have to journey north to Great +Central Lake, in the heart of Vancouver Island, or +south to Lake Chapala, in the Mexican State of Jalisco, +to get wild-fowl shooting to equal that on these grey +marshes, for here, in what Easterners call winter-time +but which Californians designate duck time, or the +season of the rains, come mallard, teal, sprig, and +canvasback, plover, snipe, and brant, in flocks which +literally darken the sky. In the waters hereabouts is +centred the fishing industry of the Sacramento River,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221"></a>[221]</span> +which has been monopolised by swarthy, red-sashed +fellows who speak the patois of Sicily or Calabria or +the Greek of the Ægean Isles. No wonder that these +sons of the south look on California as a land of gold, +for an industrious fisherman, who will attend to his +nets and leave alone the brandy and red wine of which +they are all so fond, can earn twenty-five dollars a +week without any danger of contracting heart disease; +his brother in Palermo or the Piræus would consider +himself an Andrew Carnegie if his weekly earnings +amounted to that many <i>lire</i> or <i>drachmæ</i>. If one is in +quest of colour and picturesqueness he can steep himself +in them both by taking up his residence for a time +among these fisherfolk of Suisun Bay, but if he does +so he had better take the precaution of keeping a +serviceable revolver in his coat pocket and leaving his +address with the river police.</p> + +<p>The delta formed by the Sacramento and San +Joaquin Rivers, which, after paying toll to the fruitful +valleys through which they pass, clasp hands near +Suisun Bay and wander together toward the sea, bears +a striking resemblance to the maze of islands and lagoons +and weed-grown waterways at the mouth of the +Nile. Some of these low-lying islands are but camping +grounds for migrating armies of wild fowl; on others, +whose rich fields are guarded by high dikes such as +you see along the Scheldt, are the truck-gardens, +tended with the painstaking care that makes the +Oriental so dangerous a competitor of the Caucasian. +It is these river gardens which make it possible for the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222"></a>[222]</span> +San Franciscan to have asparagus, peas, artichokes, +alligator pears, and strawberries on his table from +Christmas eve around to Christmas morning, and more +cheaply than the New Yorker can get the same things +in cans. Indeed, a quarter of the asparagus crop of +the United States comes from these levee-shielded tule +lands along the Sacramento. That, I suppose, is why +it is so hard for an Eastern <i>bon vivant</i> to impress a +Californian. The New Yorker, thinking to give his San +Franciscan friend a real treat, takes him to Sherry’s +or the Plaza and, shutting his eyes to the prices on the +menu, orders a meal in which such out-of-the-season +delicacies as asparagus figure largely.</p> + +<p>“Quite like home,” remarks the Californian carelessly. +“My wife writes that she is getting asparagus +from our own garden every day now and that strawberries +are selling in the market for fifteen cents a box. +Alligator-pear salad? Not any, thanks. The chef at +the club insists on giving it to us about four times a +week, so I’m rather tired of it. If it’s all the same to +you I think I’d like some pumpkin pie and milk.”</p> + +<p>Hanging over the rail, I took huge delight in watching +the stream of traffic which turned the river into a +maritime Broadway: stern-wheel passenger steamers, +ploughing straight ahead, with never a glance to right +or left, like a preoccupied business man going to his +office; busy little launches, teuf-teuffing here and there +as importantly as district messenger boys; panting +freighters with strings of grain-laden barges in tow; +ugly, ill-smelling tank-steamers carrying Mr. Rockefeller’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223"></a>[223]</span> +petroleum to far-off, outlandish ports; scow-schooners, +full sisters of those broad-beamed, huge-sailed +lumbering craft which bring the products of the +Seine banks down to the Paris markets; big black +dredgers, mud-stained and grimy, like the labourers +they are, hard at work reinforcing the dikes against +the winter floods; tide-working ferries, lazy, ingenious, +resourceful craft which swing across the river, up-stream +or down, making the current or the tide or both +do their work for them.</p> + +<p>After Isleton is passed the river settles down to +an even width of sixscore yards, flowing contentedly +between banks festooned with wild grape-vines and +shaded by oaks and walnuts, sycamore and willows, +between which we caught fleeting glimpses of prosperous +homes whose splendid trees and ordered gardens +reminded us of country places we knew along the +Thames. This is the most beautiful part of the river +by far. Every now and again we glimpsed the mouth +of a leafy bayou which seemed to invite us to explore +its alluring recesses in a canoe. A moment later a +little bay would disclose a fine old house with stately +white columns and a mansard roof—the result, most +probably, of the owner’s success in the gold-fields +sixty years ago. These homes along the Sacramento +have none of the <i>nouveau riche</i> magnificence of the +mansions at Pasadena and Montecito, but they are +for the most part dignified and characteristic of that +formative and romantic period in which they were +built. Clarksburg, one hundred and ten miles from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224"></a>[224]</span> +San Francisco, is the last stop before Sacramento, +ten miles farther on. Here the river banks become +more busy. Steam, motor, and electric lines focalise +upon the capital. We passed a colony of house-boats, +not the floating mansions one sees at Henley, but +simple, unpretentious craft which admirably answer +their purpose of passing a summer holiday. Wharfs +began to appear. A great black drawbridge, thrusting +its unlovely length across the river, parted sullenly +for us to pass. Above a cluster of palms and blossoming +magnolias the dome of the capitol appeared, the +last rays of the setting sun striking upon its gilded +surface and turning it into a flaming orb. The air was +heavy with the fragrance of camellias. A bell tinkled +sharply in the engine room, the great stern wheel +churned the water frantically for a moment and then +stopped, the boat glided deftly alongside the wharf, +the gang-plank rumbled out. “All ashore!” bawled +some one. “All ashore! Sacramento!”</p> + +<p>In the gold-rush days Sacramento was to the mining +region what Johannesburg is to the Rand—a base +of supplies, a place of amusement, where the miners +were wont to come to squander their gold-dust over the +polished bars of the saloons and dance halls or on +the green tables of the gambling-houses. Those were +the free-and-easy days when anything costing less +than a dollar was priced in “bits,” a bit having no +arbitrary value but being equivalent to the amount +of gold-dust which could be held between the thumb +and forefinger. In the days when placer mining was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225"></a>[225]</span> +in its glory, debts were discharged in gold-dust instead +of coin, and it often happened when a man was paying +a small grocery bill, or more particularly when he was +buying a drink, the bartender, instead of taking the +trouble to weigh the dust, would insert his thumb +and forefinger in the miner’s buckskin “poke” and +lift a pinch of gold-dust. So it came to pass that when +a man applied for a job as bartender his ability to fill +the position would be tested by the proprietor asking, +“How much can you raise at a pinch?” whence the +familiar colloquialism of the present day. The more +that he could raise, of course, the more valuable he +would be as an employee, the chief requisite for a successful +bartender being, therefore, that he should have +splay fingers. In gold-rush times steamers ran daily +from San Francisco to Sacramento, just as they do to-day, +for the river provided the quickest and easiest +means of reaching the mines from the coast, while six-horsed +Concord coaches, the names of whose drivers +were synonyms for reckless daring, tore along the roads +to Marysville, Stockton, and Nevada City as fast as +the horses could lay foot to ground.</p> + +<p>To fully appreciate the miracle of reclamation, +whereby the banks of the Sacramento have been transformed +from worthless drowned lands into the richest +gardens in the world, you should motor down the +splendid boulevard which for a dozen miles or more +parallels the river. The miners along the Sacramento +early found that the easiest and cheapest method of +getting gold was to direct a powerful stream of water<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226"></a>[226]</span> +against the hillsides, washing the hills away and diverting +the resultant mud into long sluice-boxes, in +which the gold was collected. The residue of mud and +water was then turned back into the streams again and +was carried down and deposited in the bed of the +Sacramento River, gradually decreasing its capacity +for carrying off flood waters and making its navigation +impossible for large boats. Hence, when the spring +freshets came the swollen river overflowed and devastated +the farms and orchards along its banks. For +forty years this sort of thing continued, the protests +of the farmers and fruit growers being ignored, for +in those days the miners virtually ruled the land. +But as time wore on, mining gradually decreased in +importance and agriculture grew, until, in 1893, the +farming interests became powerful enough to induce +Congress to stop all hydraulic mining and to put all +mining operations on streams in the San Joaquin and +Sacramento Valleys under the control of the California +Debris Commission. Once rid of the bugaboo of the +hydraulic nozzle and its resultant obstruction of the +river channels, the farmers along the Sacramento got +together and purchased a number of clam-shell dredgers +and set to work to build new levees and to repair the +old ones. If you will follow the course of the Sacramento +for a few miles outside the capital, either by +road or river, you will see them at work. It is very +interesting. A great arm, ending in a sort of hand like +two clam-shells, reaches out over the river and the +hand plunges into the stream. When the hand, which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227"></a>[227]</span> +is in reality a huge steel scoop with hinged jaws, emerges +from its gropings at the river-bottom it is filled with +sand, whereupon the arm carries it over and empties +it upon the bank. This is the way in which the dikes +which border the Sacramento are constructed, one +clam-shell dredger doing as much work in a day as +five hundred men. As a result of this ingenious contrivance +you can make the circuit of Grand Island on +an oiled road, forty feet wide, which has been built +on top of the dikes. Below you on one side is the river; +on the other orchards and gardens from which come +annually a quarter of the world’s asparagus crop, the +earliest cherries in the United States, and a million +boxes of pears.</p> + +<p>I think that the most significant thing that I saw +in Sacramento was Sutter’s Fort, or, to be quite accurate, +the restored remnants of it. Three quarters +of a century ago this little rectangular fortification was +the westernmost outpost of American civilisation. +In 1839 a Swiss soldier of fortune named John Augustus +Sutter obtained from the Mexican Government a +grant of eleven square leagues of land on the banks of +the Sacramento River and permission to erect a stockade +as a protection against the encroachments of the +Indians. The stockade, however, quickly grew into +something closely resembling a fort, with walls loopholed +for musketry and capable of resisting any attack +unsupported by artillery. Sutter’s Fort, or “New +Helvetia,” as the owner called his little kingdom, was +on the direct line of overland immigration from the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228"></a>[228]</span> +East, and as a result of the strategic position he occupied +and of his influence with the Mexican authorities, +Sutter soon became the virtual ruler of all this Sierran +region. During those stirring days when Frémont +and his frontiersmen came riding down from the passes, +it was this Swiss-American adventurer who held the +balance of power on the Pacific Coast, and it was in no +small measure due to the encouragement and aid he +gave the American settlers that California became +American. The old frontiersman died in poverty, the +great domain of which he was the owner having been +wrested from him, on one pretext and another, each +flimsier than the one preceding, during the turmoil +and lawlessness which marked the gold-rush days. +To-day the old fort is the centre of a highly landscaped +city park; the muzzles of its brass field-guns frown +from their embrasures down paved and shaded avenues; +street-cars clang their noisy way past the gates which +were double-barred at night against the attacks of +marauding bands of Mexicans and Indians; and at +night spluttering arc-lamps illuminate its loopholed, +vine-clad walls. Sacramento has acknowledged the +great debt she owes to Sutter by giving his destitute +grandson employment as a day labourer on the grounds +of the fort which his grandfather built and to which +the capital city of California owes its being.</p> + +<p>There are two routes open to the automobilist +between Sacramento and Lake Tahoe and, historically +as well as scenically, there is little to choose between +them. The Placerville route, though considerably the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229"></a>[229]</span> +longer, traverses the country immortalised by Bret +Harte and inseparably associated with the “Forty-Niners.” +From Sacramento to Folsom the highway +follows the route of the first railroad built in California, +this jerk-water line, constructed in 1854 to take the +miners in and the gold-dust out, being the grandfather +of those great systems which now cover the State with +a cobweb of steel. At Folsom, built on the edge of a +sheer cliff high above the waters of the American River, +is the stone-walled château where a thousand or more +gentlemen who have emerged second best from arguments +with the law are dwelling in enforced seclusion +at the expense of the State. Placerville is the historic +“Hangtown” of early days, having gained its original +name from the fact that the sacredness of law and order +was emphasised there in the good old days by means +of frequent entertainments known as “necktie parties,” +the hosts at these informal affairs being committees +of indignant citizens. At them the guest of honour +made his positively last appearance. It was here +that “Wheelbarrow John” Studebaker, by sticking to +his trade of wheelwright instead of joining in the mad +stampede to the diggings, laid the foundation for that +great concern whose vehicles are known wherever +there are roads for wheels to run on. At Coloma, not +far from Placerville, a heroic statue does honour to the +memory of John Marshall, the news of whose discovery +of yellow sand in a mill-race brought fortune seekers +flocking Californiaward from every quarter of the +globe. Though fruit growing has long since succeeded<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230"></a>[230]</span> +mining as the chief industry of this region, and though +the buildings mentioned in the stories of Bret Harte and +Mark Twain have for the most part gone to wrack and +ruin, these towns of the “Mother Lode” still retain +enough of their old-time interest and picturesqueness +so that it does not require a Bausch & Lomb imagination +to picture them as they were in the heyday of +their existence, when their streets and barrooms and +dance halls were filled with the flotsam and jetsam of +all the earth: wanderers from dim and distant ports, +adventurers, seafarers, soldiers of misfortune, gamblers, +absconding bank clerks, farmers, unsuccessful merchants, +out-at-elbows professional men, men of uneasy +conscience and women of easy virtue, world without +end.</p> + +<p>When Congress put an end to hydraulic mining +the mining men made an outcry that rose to heaven. +The prosperity of California was ended. The State +was going to the bow-wows. There was nothing but +gloom and disaster ahead. The companies that owned +the water-rights along the American River planted +their properties to grape-vines and used their hydraulic +apparatus to water them with. But always they +were tormented with the knowledge that under the +roots of the vines was gold, gold, gold. Spurred on by +this knowledge, there was devised a new process of +gold extraction; a process that not only did not deposit +any débris in the rivers but which proved to be +far more profitable than the old. Ground that had +not yielded enough gold to pay for its being worked<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231"></a>[231]</span> +was turned into “pay dirt” through the agency of the +giant gold dredger invented in New Zealand and later +developed to its highest efficiency in California. Picture +to yourself a boulder-strewn field, covered with the +tailings of old mining operations, with here and there +a pit as large as the foundation for a sky-scraper made +by the hydraulic miners. Each successive layer of +gravel in this field, straight down to bed-rock, bears +gold in small quantities—gold brought there ages ago +by the waters of the river. To extract this gold by the +old methods was obviously as unprofitable as it was +illegal. So they tried the new method imported from +the gold-fields of New Zealand. It is not easy to explain +the workings of a modern gold dredger unless +you have seen one. Go out into the middle of a field +and dig a pit—a pit large enough to contain a city +office-building. Run water into the pit until it becomes +a mud-hole. Then build in that mud-hole a great steel +caisson of several thousand cubic tons displacement. +There you have the basis of the mammoth contrivances +which have supplanted the ’Forty-Niner’s pick and +pan. Each of these dredgers costs a quarter of a million +dollars to build and labours night and day. The +business end of the dredger consists of an endless chain +of buckets, each of which weighs two tons when empty, +which burrow down into the mud-hole until they strike +bed-rock. The gravel which they bring up, after being +saturated with water, is passed over quicksilver tables +which collect the gold, and runs out again at the bottom +of the pit, thus reversing the natural arrangement of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232"></a>[232]</span> +the soil, the dirt being left on the bottom and the +gravel and cobbles on top. It costs in the neighbourhood +of seven thousand dollars a month to operate +one of these dredgers, but the resultant “clean-up” +pays for this several times over. Not only is the gold +extracted from the earth as effectually as a bartender +squeezes the juice out of a lemon, but rock crushers +convert the mountains of cobbles into material for +building highways all over the surrounding region, and +on the aerated and renovated soil which the dredgers +leave behind them any crop on earth will thrive. Thus +has mechanical genius succeeded in turning those hereditary +enemies, Agriculture and Mining, into coworkers +and friends.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus23" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus23.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>LAKE TAHOE FROM THE SLOPES OF THE HIGH SIERRAS.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Because we wished to follow the route which the +overland emigrants had taken in their epoch-making +march, we did not go to Tahoe through Placerville, +which is connected with Tallac, at the southern end of +the lake, by one of the finest motor highways in California, +but chose the more direct and equally good +road which climbs over the Sierras by way of Colfax, +Dutch Flat, and Emigrant Gap. Upward and upward +wound our road, like a spiral stairway to the skies. +One of the most characteristic features of this Sierra +region is that the traveller can see at a glance the lay +of the whole land. Nowhere else, so far as I am aware, +not from the Saint Bernard, or Ararat, or even from +Darjeeling, can one command such comprehensive views +as are to be had from the rocky promontory known as +Cape Horn, or from Summit, which, as its name implies,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233"></a>[233]</span> +is at the top of the pass. At our feet, like a map +spread out upon the ground for our inspection, lay +California. The dense forests which clothed the upper +slopes of the Sierras gave way to orchards of pear and +apple, and these changed to the citrus groves which +flourish on the lower, balmier levels, and the green of +the orange zone ended abruptly in the yellow of the +grain-fields, and this merged into the checker-board of +the truck-gardens, and through these we could dimly +descry the blue ribbon of the Sacramento turning and +twisting and doubling on its tortuous way to the sea.</p> + +<p>The summit of the pass is one hundred and five +miles from Sacramento, and in that distance we had +ascended just seven thousand feet, or seven hundred +feet higher than Mount Washington, the highest peak +east of the Rockies. From Summit to Truckee is fourteen +miles and we coasted all the way, the rush of +mountain air in our faces as we swept silently and +smoothly down the long diagonals recalling the sensation +on the Cresta Run at Saint Moritz. Swinging suddenly +around a shoulder of the mountain at the “Three +Miles to Truckee” sign, we found ourselves looking +down upon a lake, a very gem of a lake, so scintillatingly +blue amid the encircling forest that it looked like a +sapphire set in jade. So smiling and pure and beautiful +it was that it seemed impossible to associate it +with the ghastliest and most revolting incident in +Californian history. Yet this was Donner Lake and +those who have heard the terrible tale of the Donner +party, for whom it was named, are not likely to forget<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234"></a>[234]</span> +it. A party of some eighty emigrants—men, women, +and children—making their way to California by the +Overland route, and delayed by an ill-advised detour, +reached the site of the present town of Truckee late +in the autumn of 1846. While attempting to cross +the pass a blinding snow-storm drove in upon them. +The story of how the less robust members of the party +died, one by one, from starvation, and of how the +survivors were forced to eat the bodies of their dead +comrades—Donner himself, it is claimed, subsisted +on the remains of his grandmother; of the “Forlorn +Hope” and of its desperate efforts to reach the settlements +in the Sacramento Valley, in which only seven +out of the twenty-two who composed it succeeded; +of the successive relief expeditions sent out from Sutter’s +Fort; and of the final rescue in the spring of 1847 +of the pitiful handful of survivors, illustrates as nothing +else can the incredible hardships and perils encountered +by the American pioneers in their winning of the West. +A grim touch of humour is lent to the tragedy by the +fact that two Indians in charge of some cattle which +Sutter had sent to them were killed and eaten by the +starving emigrants, on the theory of the frontiersman, +no doubt, that the only good Indian is a dead one. +The hospitable Sutter, in a statement published some +months later, complained most bitterly of this ungrateful +act, saying that they were welcome to the +cattle but that they were unjustified in depriving him +of two perfectly good Indians.</p> + +<p>Truckee still bears all the earmarks of a frontier<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235"></a>[235]</span> +town, for miners, cow-punchers, and lumbermen, +bearded to the eyes, booted to the knees, and in several +cases quite evidently loaded to the neck, lounged in +the shade of the wooden awnings and swapped stories +and spat tobacco juice as they waited for the train +bringing the San Francisco papers to come in; while +rows of saddle ponies, heads drooping and reins trailing +in the dust, waited dejectedly at the edge of the +raised wooden sidewalks for their masters. From +Truckee to Tahoe our way led through the Truckee +cañon, running for a dozen miles or more so close to +the banks of the sparkling, tumbling mountain river +that we could have cast for the rainbow-trout we saw +in it without having to leave the car. Dusk fell, and +hard on its heels came its mother, the Dark, but still +the yellow road, turned by the twin beams of the +headlights to silver now, wound and turned and twisted +interminably on, now swerving sharply as though +frightened by the ghostliness of a thicket of white +birches, then plunging confidently into the eerie darkness +of a grove of fir-trees and emerging, all unexpectedly, +before a great, low, wide-spread building, its +many windows ablaze with lights and its long verandas +outlined by hundreds and hundreds of scarlet +paper lanterns. A wave of fragrance and music +intermingled was wafted to us from where an orchestra +was playing dreamy music in the rose gardens above +the lake, whose silent, sombre waters reflected a luminous +summer moon. Music and moonlight I have +known in many places—beneath the cypresses of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236"></a>[236]</span> +Lago Maggiore, along the Canale Grande, off the coasts +of Africa, in the gardens of the Taj Mahal—but I +have never seen, nor do I ever expect to see, anything +quite as beautiful as that first night on Tahoe, when +the paper lanterns quivered in the night breeze, and +the violins throbbed, oh, so softly, and the pale moon +shone down upon the snow-capped mountains and +they in turn were reflected dimly in the darkened +waters of the lake.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237"></a>[237]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="IX">IX<br> +<span class="smaller">THE INLAND EMPIRE</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238"></a>[238]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“I watched the sun sink from the west,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">I watched the sweet day die;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Above the dim Coast Range’s crest</div> + <div class="verse indent2">I saw the red clouds lie;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I saw them lying golden deep,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">By lingering sunbeams kissed,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like isles of fairyland that sleep</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In seas of amethyst.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="center">...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Then through the long night hours I lay</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In baffled sleep’s travail,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And heard the outcast thieves in grey—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The gaunt coyotes—wail.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With seaward winds that wandering blew</div> + <div class="verse indent2">I heard the wild geese cry,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I heard their grey wings beating through</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The star-dust of the sky.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="center">...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Yet, with the last grim, solemn hour,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Stilled were the voices all,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And then, from poppied fields aflower,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Rang out the wild bird’s call;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The glad dawn, deep in white mists steeped,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Breathed on the day’s hushed lyre,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And far the dim Sierras leaped</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In living waves of fire.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239"></a>[239]</span></p> + +<h3>IX<br> +<span class="smaller">THE INLAND EMPIRE</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>Along in January, after the holiday festivities +are over, and the youngsters have gone back to +school or college, and the Christmas presents have +been paid for, Mr. American Business Man and his +wife, to the number of many thousands, escape from +the inclemency of an Eastern winter by “taking a +run out to the coast.” They usually choose one of +the southern routes—the trip being prefaced by an +animated family discussion as to whether they shall +go via the Grand Cañon or New Orleans—getting +their first glimpse of the Golden State at San Diego. +After taking a shivery dip in the breakers at Coronado +so as to be able to write the folks back home that they +have gone in bathing in midwinter, they continue +their leisurely progress northward by the <i>table-d’hôte</i> +route, picking oranges at Riverside, taking the mountain +railway up Mount Lowe from Pasadena, stopping +off at Santa Barbara to see the mission and the homes +of the millionaires at Montecito, playing golf and +whirling round the Seventeen Mile Drive at Del +Monte, visiting Chinatown, the Cliff House, and the +Barbary Coast in San Francisco, and returning to the +East in the early spring via Salt Lake City or the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240"></a>[240]</span> +“C. P. R.,” having, as they fondly believe, seen pretty +much everything in California worth the seeing.</p> + +<p>They turn their faces homeward utterly unconscious +of the fact that they have only skirted along the +fringe of the State; that of the great country at the +back, which constitutes the real California, they have +seen absolutely nothing. To them Sacramento, Stockton, +Merced, Fresno, Bakersfield, Lake Tahoe, the San +Joaquin, the Big Trees, the Yosemite, the High Sierras +are but names. They do not seem to appreciate, or +it may be that they do not care, that the narrow +coast zone dedicated to the amusement of the winter +tourist is no more typical of California than the Riviera +is typical of France. Though it is true that the Californian +hinterland has no million-dollar “show places” +and no huge hotels with tourists in white shoes and +straw hats taking tea upon their terraces, it has other +things which are more significant and more worth +seeing. The visitor to the back country can see the +orchards which supply the breakfast-tables of half the +world with fruit and the vineyards which supply the +dinner-tables of the other half with grapes and wine +and raisins; he can see flocks of sheep so large that +the hills on which they are grazing seem to be covered +with snow; he can see oil-fields which produce enough +petroleum to keep all the lamps in the world alight +until the crack of doom. And, if this is not sufficient +inducement, he can motor along the foot of the highest +mountain range in America, he can visit the most +beautiful valley in all the world, he can picnic under<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241"></a>[241]</span> +the biggest trees in existence. A country of big things: +big distances, big mountains, big trees, big ranches, +big orchards, big crops, big pay, big problems—that’s +the hinterland of California.</p> + +<p>Now, that you may the more easily follow me in +what I have to say, I will, with your permission, refer +you to the map of the regions described in this volume. +(<a href="#map">See end of book.</a>)</p> + +<p>The mountain systems, as you see, form a gigantic +basin which comprises about three fifths of the total +area of the State. The eastern rim of this basin is +formed by the Sierra Nevada and the western rim by +the Coast Range, these two coming together at the +northern end of the basin in the great mountain wall +which separates California from Oregon, while to the +south they sweep inward in the form of a gigantic +amphitheatre, being joined by a minor range known +as the Tehachapis. Reaching Mexicoward is the +continuation of the Coast system known as the San +Bernardino Range, forming, as it were, a sort of handle +to the basin. The only natural entrance to the basin +is the Golden Gate, through which the two great river +systems—the San Joaquin and Sacramento—reach the +sea. Lying between the Coast Range and the Pacific +is that narrow strip of pleasure land, with its orange +groves, its silver beaches, its great hotels and splendid +country houses, which is the beginning and end of +California so far as the tourist is concerned. The +northern part of the great basin, which is drained by +the Sacramento River, is called the Sacramento Valley,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242"></a>[242]</span> +while its southern two thirds, whose streams run +into the San Joaquin River, is commonly known as +“the San Joaquin,” the whole forming the Great +Valley of California. “Valley” is, however, a misnomer. +One might as fittingly call Mount McKinley a hill, or +Lake Superior a pond. It is a plain rather than a valley; +a plain upon whose level reaches Belgium would be +lost and Holland could be tucked away in the corners. +From the rampart of the Sierra Nevada on the east +to the wall of the Coast Range on the west the rich +brown loam has an average width of half a hundred +miles. North and south it extends upward of four +hundred miles—as far as from Pittsburg to Chicago. +What Rhodesia is to South Africa, what its prairie +provinces are to Canada, the Great Valley, with its +millions of incredibly fertile acres, level as a floor and +checker-boarded with alfalfa, fruit, and vine, is to +California—the storehouse of the State.</p> + +<p>Before the railway builders came the Great Valley +was one of the most important cattle-ranges in the +West, and hundreds of thousands of longhorns grazed +knee-deep in its lush grass. With the railway came the +homesteaders, who, despite the threats of the cattlemen, +drove their stakes and built their cabins and +started to raise wheat. Then a dry year came, and on +top of that another, a heart-breaking succession of them, +and the ruined wheat growers sold out to the cattle +barons. In such manner grew up the big ranches—holdings +ranging all the way from ten thousand to half a +million acres or more—a few of which still remain intact.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243"></a>[243]</span> +But a drought that will kill wheat will kill cattle, too, +and after one terrible year a hundred thousand horned +skeletons lay bleaching on the ranges. And so the +cattlemen evacuated the valley in their turn and their +places were taken by the diggers of ditches. Now the +Lord evidently built the Great Valley to encourage +irrigation. He filled it with rich, alluvial loam, tilted +it ever so slightly toward the centre, brought innumerable +streams from the mountains and glaciers down +to the edge of the plain, ordered the rain and the blizzard +to stay away and the sun to work overtime. All +this he did for the Great Valley, and the ditch did +the rest—or, rather, the ditch allied to hard work, for +without sweat-beaded brows, calloused hands, aching +backs, the ditch is worthless. A social as well as an +agricultural miracle was performed by the watering +of the thirsty land. The great ranches were subdivided +into farms and orchards. Settlers came pouring +in. Communities of hardy, industrious, energetic +folk sprang up everywhere and these grew into villages +and the villages became towns and the towns +expanded into cities. School bells clanged their insistent +summons to the youth of the countryside, +church spires pointed their slender fingers toward the +sky, highways stretched their length across the plain, +and before this onset of civilisation the moral code of +the frontier crumbled and gave way. The gun-fighter +took French leave, the gambler silently decamped +between two days, and in many communities the saloon-keeper +tacked a “For Sale” sign on his door and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244"></a>[244]</span> +took the north-bound train. Civilisation had come to +the Great Valley, not with the dust of hoofs or beat +of train, but with the gurgle of water in an irrigating +ditch—and it had come to stay.</p> + +<p>Of the effect produced by this spreading of the +waters we saw many evidences as we fled southward +from Sacramento across the oak-studded plain. Throwing +wide the throttle, the car leaped forward like a +live thing. The oiled road slipped away from our +wheels like an unwinding bolt of grey silk ribbon. The +grain-fields were wide, the houses few. Constables +there were none. Vineyards and orchards, trim rows +of vegetables, neatly fenced farms alternated with +seas of barley undulating in the wind. Such a country, +however prosperous, offers little to detain a motorist, +and we went booming southward at a gait that made +the telegraph poles resemble the palings in a picket +fence. Occasionally a torpedo-shaped electric car, a +monstrous thing in a dull, hot red, the faces of its passengers +grotesquely framed by the circular port-holes +which serve as windows, tore past us with the wail of +a lost soul. Whence it came or whither it went was a +matter of small moment.</p> + +<p>The factory whistles were raucously reminding +the workers that it was time to take the covers off +their dinner pails when we swung into the plaza of +the city whose name perpetuates the memory of the +admiral who added California to the Union and drew +up before the entrance of the Hotel Stockton. If you +should chance to go there, don’t let them persuade you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245"></a>[245]</span> +into lunching in the restaurant with its fumed oak +wainscotting and the Clydesdale furniture which appears +to be inseparable from the mission style of +decoration, but insist on having a table set on the roof-garden +with its vine-hung pergola and its ramparts +of red geraniums. That was what we did, and the meal +we had there, high above the city’s bustle, became a +white milestone on our highway of memories. Had it +not been for the advertisements of chewing-gum and +plug tobacco which stared at us from near-by hoardings, +I would not have believed that we were in the +United States at all, so different was the scene from my +preconceived notions of the San Joaquin Valley. We +might have been on the terrace of that quaint old +hotel—I forget the name of it—that overlooks the +Dam in Rotterdam. Stockton, you see, is at the head +of navigation on the San Joaquin River, and the hotel +stands at the head of one of the canal-like channels +which permit of vessels tying up in the very heart of +the city, so that from the terrace on its roof you look +down on as animated and interesting a water scene as +you will find anywhere: pompous, self-important tugs, +launches with engines spluttering like angry washerwomen, +stern-wheel passenger steamers, little sisters +of those upon the Mississippi, and cumbersome, slow-moving +barges, their flat decks piled high with bagged +or barrelled products of the valley on their way to +San Francisco Harbour, there to be transshipped for +strange and far-off ports.</p> + +<p>As a result of the Powers That Be at Washington<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246"></a>[246]</span> +having recently had a change of heart in respect to +motor-cars entering the Yosemite, every valley town +between Stockton and Visalia has announced itself +as the one and only “official gateway to the valley,” +and has backed up its claims with tons of maps and +literature. As a matter of fact, the Department of +the Interior has announced that motorists desiring to +visit the Yosemite must enter and leave it by the +Coulterville road, and this road can be reached from +any one of half a dozen valley towns with equal facility. +Coming, as we did, from the north, the most convenient +route led through Modesto. As a result of the sudden +prosperity produced by a modern version of the Miracle +of Moses, water having been brought forth where +there was no water before by a prophet’s rod in the form +of an irrigating ditch, the little town is as up to date +as a girl just back from Paris. Its lawns and gardens +have been Peter-Hendersonised until they look like +the illustrations in a seedsman’s catalogue; the architecture +of its schools and public buildings is so faithful +an adaptation of the Spanish mission style that they +would deceive old Padre Serra himself; and its roads +would do credit to the genius of J. MacAdam.</p> + +<p>If you will set your travelling clock to awake you +at the hour at which the servant-girl gets up to go to +early mass you should, even allowing for the five-thousand-foot +climb, reach Crocker’s Sierra Resort, which +is the nearest stopping place to that entrance of the +Yosemite assigned to motorists, before the supper +table is cleared off. It is necessary to spend the night<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247"></a>[247]</span> +at Crocker’s, as the government regulations, which +are far more inflexible than the Ten Commandments, +permit motorists to enter the valley only between the +hours of ten and one. Leaving Crocker’s at a much +more respectable hour than we did Modesto, we reached +the first military outpost at Merced Big Tree Grove +shortly before ten, where a very businesslike young +cavalry officer put me through a catechism which made +me feel like an immigrant applying for admission at +Ellis Island. If your answers to the lieutenant’s questions +correspond to those in the back of the book and +your car is able to do the tricks required of it—to test +the holding power of its brakes you are ordered to +take a running start and then throw the brakes on so +suddenly that the wheels skid—you are permitted +the pleasure of paying five dollars for the privilege of +entering the jealously guarded portals. They stamp +your permit with the hour and minute at which you +leave the big trees, and if you arrive at the next +military post, which is nine miles distant, at the foot +of the Merced River Cañon, in a single second under +an hour and seventeen minutes you are fined so heavily +that you won’t enjoy your visit. I remember that we +sneered at these regulations as being unnecessary and +absurd—but that was before we had seen the Merced +Cañon grade. As my chauffeur remarked, it is a real +hum-dinger. It is nothing more or less than a narrow +shelf chopped out of the face of the cliff.</p> + +<p>“I wonder if those soldiers were quite as careful +in examining our brakes as they should have been?”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248"></a>[248]</span> +anxiously remarked one of my companions, glancing +over the side of the car into the dizzy gorge below and +then looking hurriedly away again.</p> + +<p>“Oh, there are some perfectly lovely wild flowers!” +suddenly exclaimed the Lady, who had been choking +the life out of the cushions. “If you don’t mind I’ll +get out and pick them ... and please don’t wait for +me, I’ll walk the rest of the way down. Yes, indeed, +I’m very fond of walking.”</p> + +<p>It is only fair to warn those who propose to follow +in our tire tracks that, entering the Yosemite by automobile, +you do not get one of those sudden and overwhelming +views which cause the beholder to “O-o-o-oh-h-h-h-h!” +and “A-a-a-ah-h-h-h-h!” like the exhaust +of a steam-engine. On the contrary, you sneak into the +famous valley very unostentatiously indeed, along a +winding wood road which might be in New England. +Nor are you permitted to tear about the floor of the +valley whither you list, for no sooner do you reach the +Sentinel Hotel than a khaki-clad trooper steps up and +orders you to put your car in the garage and keep it +there until you are ready to leave.</p> + +<p>The Yosemite is not, properly speaking, a valley. +That word suggests a gentle depression with sloping +sides, a sort of hollow in the hills, which have been +moulded by the fingers of ages into flowing and complaisant +lines. The Yosemite is nothing of the sort. +It is a great cleft or chasm, hemmed in by rocky walls +as steep as the prices at a summer hotel and as smooth +as the manners of a confidence man. It is the exact<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_249"></a>[249]</span> +reverse of that formation so characteristic of the Southwest +known as a mesa: it is a precipice-walled plain. +One might imagine it to be the work of some exasperated +Titan who, peeved at finding the barrier of the Sierras +in his path, had driven his spade deep into the ridge of +the range and then moved it back and forth, as a gardener +does in setting out a plant, leaving a gash in the +mountains eight miles long and a mile deep. When +flocks of wild geese light in the Yosemite, so John +Muir tells us, they have hard work to find their way +out again, for, no matter in which direction they turn, +they are soon stopped by the wall, the height of which +they seem to have an insuperable difficulty in gauging. +They must feel very much like a fish in an aquarium +which is for ever battering its nose against the glass +walls of its tank. The wall looks to be only about so +high, but when they should be far over its top, northward +or southward according to the season, back they +find themselves once more, beating against its stony +face, and it is only when, in their bewilderment, they +chance to follow the downward course of the river, +that they hit upon an exit.</p> + +<p>Standing in the centre of the valley floor, on the +banks of the winding Merced, is the Sentinel Hotel, +which, barring several camps, is the only hostelry in +the valley. It is a cosy, homelike, old-fashioned place, +the fashion in which the rooms open onto the broad +verandas which run entirely around both the lower +and the upper stories recalling the old-time taverns +of the South. As there are neither dance pavilions<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_250"></a>[250]</span> +nor moving-picture houses in the Yosemite, the young +women employed as waitresses at the Sentinel Hotel +frequently find their unoccupied time hanging heavy +on their hands, this tedium occasionally leading them +into exploits calculated to make the hair of the observer +permanently pompadour. One of these girls, a slender, +willowy creature, anxious to outdare her companions, +climbed to Glacier Point and on the insecure and +scanty foothold afforded by the Overhanging Rock, +which juts from the face of the sheer cliff, three thousand +two hundred feet above the valley floor, proceeded +to dance the tango! Evidently feeling that this exhibition, +which had sent chills of apprehension up the +spines of the beholders, was too tame, she balanced +herself on one foot on the ledge’s very brink and extended +the other, like a <i>première danseuse</i>, over three +fifths of a mile of emptiness.</p> + +<p>An unobtrusive but interesting feature of the +Yosemite which may well escape the notice of the +casual tourist is the little settlement of Indians, who +dwell in a collection of wretched shacks at the base +of the valley’s northern wall. Like all the California +Indians, this remnant of the Yosemite tribe are entirely +lacking in the picturesqueness of dress and bearing +which characterises their kinsmen of the Southwest. +Their presence in the Yosemite possesses, however, a +certain romantic interest, for, had it not been for them, +it may well be that the famous valley would still remain +unfound. Their story is an interesting and +pathetic one. As a result of the injustices and outrages<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251"></a>[251]</span> +committed upon the peaceful Californian Indians +by the settlers who came flocking into the State +upon the discovery of gold, the tribes were driven to +revolt, and in 1851 the government found itself with a +“little war” upon its hands. The trouble ended, of +course, by the complete subjugation of the Indians, +who were transferred from their hereditary homes to +a reservation near Fresno. The Yosemites proved less +tractable than the other tribes, however, and, instead +of coming in and surrendering to the palefaces, they +retreated to their fastnesses in the High Sierras, and +it was while pursuing them that a troop of cavalry +discovered the enchanted valley which bears their +name. They were captured and carried to Fresno, +but the humid climate of the lowlands wrought such +havoc among these mountain-bred folk that the survivors +petitioned the government for permission to +return to their old home. Their petition was granted, +and during the half century which has passed since +their return to the valley which was the cradle of their +race they have never molested the white man and +have supported themselves by such work as the valley +affords and by basket weaving.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus24" style="max-width: 28.125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus24.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>THE YOSEMITE—AND A LADY WHO DIDN’T KNOW FEAR.</p> + <p>“She balanced herself on one foot on the ledge’s very brink and extended + the other, like a <i>première danseuse</i>, over three fifths of a mile of + emptiness.”</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>It was quite by chance that I stumbled upon these +copper-coloured stragglers from another era. While +riding one afternoon along the foot of the sheer precipice +which hems the valley in, my eye was caught by +three strange objects standing in a row. They resembled—as +much as they resembled anything—West African +voodoo priests in the thatched garments which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252"></a>[252]</span> +they wear on ceremonial occasions. Upon questioning +the Indian woman who appeared, however, I elicited +the information that they were <i>chuck-ahs</i>, and were +built to store acorns in. The Yosemite <i>chuck-ah</i> +looks like a huge edition of the hampers they use in +the lavatories of hotels to throw soiled towels in, +thatched with fir branches and twigs, covered with a +square of canvas to shed the rain, and mounted on +stilts so as to place its contents beyond the reach of +rodents. As the Yosemites, who are bitterly poor, +largely subsist upon a coarse bread made from meal +produced by pounding the bitter acorn, the <i>chuck-ah</i> +is as essential to their scheme of household economy +as a flour barrel is to ours. The copper-coloured lady +who painstakingly explained all this to me in very disconnected +English told me that her name was Wilson’s +Lucy. Whether she was married to Wilson or whether +she was merely attached, like her name, I did not +inquire. Flattered by my obvious interest in her domestic +affairs, she disappeared into the miserable hut +which served as home, to reappear an instant later +carrying what at first glance I took for a small-sized +mummy, but which, upon closer inspection, proved to +be a very black-haired, very bright-eyed, very lusty +youngster, bound to a board from chin to ankle with +linen bandages which served the double purpose of +making him straight of body and keeping him out +of mischief.</p> + +<p>“What’s his name?” I inquired, proffering a piece +of silver.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_253"></a>[253]</span></p> + +<p>“My name Wilson’s Lucy,” the mother giggled +proudly. “He name Woodrow Wilson.”</p> + +<p>So, should the President see fit to present a silver +spoon to his copper-coloured namesake, he can address +it care of Yosemite Valley Post-Office, California.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus25" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus25.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>In midwinter, when the Yosemite is deep + in snow, skis and sledges provide the only means of giving the baby + an airing.</p> + <p>“What’s his name?” I inquired. The mother giggled proudly: “He + name Woodrow Wilson.”</p> + <p>YOSEMITE YOUNGSTERS, WHITE AND RED.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p class="tb">Of the Yosemite, Herr Karl Baedeker, to whose +red guide-books every travelling American clings as +tenaciously as to his letter of credit, and whose opinions +he accepts as unreservedly as a Mohammedan accepts +the Koran, has said: “No single valley in Switzerland +combines in so limited a space such a wonderful variety +of grand and romantic scenery.” Aside from its unique +scenic beauties, the chief attraction of the Yosemite, +to my way of thinking, is the altogether unusual variety +of recreation which it affords. Excursions afoot, +ahorseback, or acarriage to a dozen points of charm +in the valley and its environs; trail rides along the +dizzy paths which the government has built to skirt +the cañon’s rim; fishing in the icy mountain streams, +in whose shaded pools half a dozen varieties of trout—Steelheads, +Speckled, Brook, Rainbow, Dolly Varden, +and others—await the fly; <i>al fresco</i> luncheons in the +leafy recesses of the Happy Isles, with the pine-carpeted +earth for a seat, a moss-covered boulder for a +table, and the mingled murmur of waterfalls and wind-stirred +tree tops for music; it is days spent in such +fashion which makes of a visit to the Yosemite an +unforgettable memory.</p> + +<p>A half-day’s journey south by stage from the Yosemite<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254"></a>[254]</span> +brings one to the lovely Sierran meadow of +Wawona, above which are marshalled that glorious +company of Sequoias known as the Mariposa Big Tree +Grove. Just as Ireland has its lakes, and Switzerland +its mountains, and Norway its fiords, so California has +its Sequoias, and in many respects they are the most +wonderful of all. The Big Trees, as they are called, +are of two <i>genera</i>: the <i>Sequoia gigantea</i>, found only +in the lower ranges of the high Sierras, and the <i>Sequoia +sempervirens</i>, which are peculiar to the region lying +between the Coast Range and the sea. There is no +more fascinating trip on the continent than that from +the Yosemite to the Big Trees of Mariposa, the road, +which in the course of a few miles attains an elevation +of six thousand five hundred feet, commanding magnificent +retrospects of the Bridal Veil Falls, El Capitan, +Cathedral Spires, and Half Dome, then plunging into +the depths of a forest of cedar, fir, and pine, crossing +the south fork of the brawling Merced, passing the +hospitable verandas of the Wawona Hotel, and ending +under the shadow of the redwood giants, traversing, +en route, a tunnel cut through the heart of a living +Sequoia. In their exploitation of the Big Tree groves, +the railway companies have had the rather questionable +taste to advertise these monarchs of the forest +by means of pictures showing six-horse coaches being +driven through them, or troops of cavalry aligned +upon their prostrate trunks, or good-looking young +women on horseback giving equestrian exhibitions +upon their stumps. To me this sort of thing smacks<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_255"></a>[255]</span> +too much of the professional showman; it is like making +a Bengal tiger jump through a paper hoop or a lion sit +up on his hind legs and beg like a trick dog. The +Sequoias are too magnificent, too awesome to thus +cheapen. When once you have stood in their solemn +presence and have attempted to follow with your eye +the course of the great trunks soaring skyward, higher +than the Flatiron Building in New York, half again +the height of the shaft on Bunker Hill; when you have +made the circuit of their massive trunks, equal in circumference +to the spires of Notre Dame; when you +have examined their bark, thicker than the armour of +the dreadnought <i>Texas</i>; you will agree with me, I +think, that the Big Trees of California need no circus +performances to emphasise their proportions and +their majesty.</p> + +<p>According to the rules promulgated by the government, +motorists are permitted to leave the Yosemite +only between the hours of six and seven-thirty in the +morning. After I had crawled out of a warm bed into +the shiveryness of a Sierran dawn—for the early mornings +are bitterly cold in the High Sierras—I felt inclined +to agree with Madame de Pompadour that +“travelling is the saddest of all pleasures.” But when +we were sandwiched in the tonneau of the car again, +with the long and trying grade by which we had +entered the valley safely behind us and the river road +to Merced stretching out in long diagonals in front, +we soon forgot the discomforts of the early rising, for +the big car leaped forward like a spirited horse turned<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_256"></a>[256]</span> +loose upon the countryside, and the crisp, clear air +dashed itself into our faces until we felt as buoyant and +exhilarated as though we had been drinking champagne. +After “checking out” at the Big Tree military outpost, +we turned down the road which leads through Coulterville +to Merced, the walls of the cañon gradually +becoming less precipitous and the rugged character of +the country merging into orchards and these in turn +to farms and vineyards as we debouched into the San +Joaquin again.</p> + +<p>Leaving Merced in the golden haze behind us, +we swung southward, through the land of port wine +and sherry, to Madera, the birthplace of the American +raisin, and so down the splendid Kearney Boulevard—fifteen +miles of oiled delight running between hedges +of palms and oleanders—to Fresno, the geographical +centre of California and the home of the American +raisin and sweet-wine industry, which in little more +than a dozen years has elbowed Spain out of first +place among the raisin growers of the world and has +caused ten thousand homes to spring up out on the +sandy plain. Unleashing the power beneath the throbbing +bonnet, we tore southward and ever southward, +at first through growing grain-fields and then across +vast barren stretches, waiting patiently for reclamation. +Draped along the scalloped base of the moleskin-coloured +foot-hills, where they rise abruptly from the +plain, was a bright green ribbon—the citrus belt of +the San Joaquin, where the orange groves nestle in +the sheltered coves formed by the Sierras’ projecting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_257"></a>[257]</span> +spurs. In the region lying between Visalia and Porterville +frost is an almost negligible quantity and, as a +result, it is threatening the supremacy of the Riverside-Pasadena +district as a producer of the golden fruit.</p> + +<p>Visalia is the starting-point for the Sequoia and +General Grant Big Tree Groves, which have recently +been opened to automobilists. The route to the +Sequoia Park lies through Lemon Cove and then over +a moderately good road, extremely dusty in summer, +to Rocky Gulch, on the Giant Forest Road, where +the motorist is halted by a cavalry patrol and the +customary five-dollar admittance fee to national parks +exacted. From Visalia to Camp Sierra, in the heart +of the Sequoia, is fifty-five miles, to cover which, +allowing for the mountain grades, the indifferent condition +of the roads, and the delay at the park boundary, +will require a full half day. The monarch of the Sequoia +Grove is the redwood known as “General Sherman,” +two hundred and eighty feet in height and ninety-five +feet in circumference. Taking height and girth +together, the “General Sherman” is, I believe, the +largest tree in the world, though in the little-visited +Calaveras Grove, the northernmost of the Californian +groups of big trees, the “Mother of the Forest” is +three hundred and fifteen feet high and the prostrate +“Father of the Forest” is one hundred and twelve +feet in circumference. If, however, the size of a tree +is gauged by its girth only, there are several trees larger +than any of the Californian Sequoias—the gigantic +cypress near Oaxaca, in Mexico, known as the “Great<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_258"></a>[258]</span> +Tree of Tule,” whose trunk measures one hundred and +sixty feet in circumference but whose height is barely +more; the great banyan in the botanical garden at +Calcutta, and the “Chestnut Tree of a Hundred +Horses”—said to be the largest tree in the world—at +the foot of Mount Etna. I do not know whether these +bald figures convey anything to you, but they certainly +do not to me and I am not going to burden you with +more of them. I have done my duty in giving you +the dimensions of the largest of the Sequoias, which, +I might add, is almost the exact height of the Flatiron +Building. A vast deal of nonsense has been written +about the age and other features of the Californian +redwoods. It is not enough for the visitor to learn +that the oldest Sequoia was probably a sapling when +Rameses drove the Israelites out of Egypt, but the +guide must needs draw upon his imagination and add +another six or seven thousand years on top of that. +The Sequoia, the noblest living thing upon our continent +to-day, would appear, even at the age of five-and-twenty +centuries, to be capable of much added lustre, +for I was gravely assured that it was probably from +these very groves that Solomon obtained the pillars +for his temple.</p> + +<p>It is in the neighbourhood of fourscore miles from +Visalia to the delta of the Kern, most southerly of the +Sierra’s golden streams, along whose banks rise the +gaunt, black skeletons of the oil-derricks. So vast is +the extent of the Great Valley of California that, +though it contains the greatest petroleum fields in all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_259"></a>[259]</span> +the world, the traveller may zigzag through it for many +days without seeing a sign of the industry which lights +the lamps and provides the motive power for trains, +boats, and motor-cars from the Straits of Behring to +the Straits of Magellan. It is not an attractive region. +Hungry and bare are the tawny hills, viscous the +waters of the stream that meanders between them, +weird and gibbet-like the forest of derricks which +crowns them. There is a smell of coal-oil in the air, +and the few habitations we passed were, by their very +ugliness, obviously connected with this, the unloveliest +of the earth’s products.</p> + +<p>Bakersfield marks the virtual end of the Great +Valley, a few miles south of it the converging ranges +of fawn-coloured plush being linked by the Tehachapi, +which is the recognised boundary between central and +southern California. Bakersfield owes its abounding +prosperity to the adjacent oil-fields, its streets being +lined by the florid residences and its highways resounding +to the arrogant <i>honk honk</i> of the high-powered +motor-cars of the “oil barons,” as the men who have +“struck oil” are termed. I like these oil barons because +with their loud voices and their boisterous +manners and the picturesqueness of their dress they +typify a phase of life in the “Last West” which is +rapidly disappearing. There is something rough-and-ready +and romantic about them; something which +recalls their get-rich-quick fellows in Dawson and +Johannesburg and Baku. Most of them have acquired +their wealth suddenly; most of them have worked up<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_260"></a>[260]</span> +from the humblest beginnings; and most of them believe +in the good old proverb of “Easy come, easy go—for +there’s more where this came from.” Red-faced, +loud-voiced, with a predilection for broad-brimmed +hats and gaudy ties, you can see them playing poker +for high stakes in the back rooms of the saloons or +leaning over the hotel bars in boisterous conversation. +After I had watched them for a time I no longer doubted +the assertion that Bakersfield buys more spittoons +than any city in the country.</p> + +<p>Although from the gilded cupola of Bakersfield’s +truly beautiful court-house you can look out across a +quarter of a million irrigated acres, though you can see +a solid block of alfalfa covering forty squares miles +and fattening twenty-five thousand head of steers a +year, these form but a patch of green on the yellow +floor of the valley’s gigantic amphitheatre. As a +matter of fact, the development of the country around +Bakersfield has been seriously retarded by the enormous +holdings of two or three great landowners who neither +improve their properties nor sell them. One of these +great landlords, who numbers his Californian acres +alone in the millions and who boasts that his cow-punchers +can drive a herd of his steers from the Mexican +frontier to the Oregon line and camp on his own +land every night, obtained his enormous holdings near +Bakersfield long years ago under the terms of the +Swamp and Drowned Lands Act, which provided that +any one who applied could obtain title to any land +which he had gone over in a boat. So he put a boat on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_261"></a>[261]</span> +a wagon and had it hauled over hundreds of thousands +of acres which he has since reclaimed. He was an +ingenious fellow.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus26" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus26.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>A “gusher” near Bakersfield spouting two + and a half million gallons of oil a day.</p> + <p>The Kern River oil fields, near Bakersfield, Cal.</p> + <p>THE GREATEST OIL FIELDS IN THE WORLD.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>You will need to journey far to find a region more +desolate and forbidding than that lying between Bakersfield +and the summit of the Tehachapi. Never +shall I forget the deadly monotony of that long, straight +road along which we pushed in the teeth of a buffeting +wind, with its whistling telegraph-poles, its creaking +iron windmills at regular intervals, and its barbed-wire +fences all converging to a vanishing-point which looked +to be perhaps five miles ahead but at which we never +seemed to arrive. There are no trees to obstruct the +view of the barren hills which rim the distance, and for +many miles there is not enough cover to hide a grasshopper, +for the soil is poisoned by alkalis and the poor, +thin grass dies of a broken heart. But as the car panted +its tortuous way from the floor of the valley up the face +of the mountain wall which hems it in, the scenery +became more varied and interesting. Great patches +of the mountainside were clothed with masses of lupin +of the coldest, brightest blue you ever saw. Once we +ran through a forest of tree yuccas whose spiked, +fantastic branches looked as though they were laden +with hedgehogs. Sometimes the road would dip quite +suddenly into a charming little hollow in the hills, +shaded by venerable live-oaks and with a purling brook +running through it, only to emerge again and zigzag +along the face of the mountain, clinging to the bare +rock as a fly clings to the ceiling. Several times we<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_262"></a>[262]</span> +had to stop for flocks of sheep—thousands and thousands +of them—moving to pastures new, driven by +shaggy, bright-eyed sheep-dogs which hung upon the +flanks of the flock and seemed to anticipate every +order of the Basque shepherds. I noticed that all +these herdsmen wore heavy revolvers at their hips and +had Winchesters slung at the pommels of their saddles, +for the ancient feud between cattlemen and sheepmen +still exists upon these Sierran ranges, and there is many +a pitched battle between them of which no news creeps +into the columns of the papers. The frequency of +these flocks considerably delayed our progress, for the +road is narrow and to have driven through the woolly +wave which at times engulfed the car would have +meant driving scores of sheep over the precipice to +death on the rocks below.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus27" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus27.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>“We ran through a forest of tree-yuccas + whose spiked, fantastic branches looked as though they were laden with + hedgehogs.”</p> + <p>“Our progress was frequently delayed by woolly waves which at times + engulfed the car.”</p> + <p>OVER THE TEHACHAPIS.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>The change in scenery as we emerged from the +mouth of the pass at Saugus was almost startling in +its suddenness. Gone were the dreary, wind-swept +plains; gone was the endless vista of telegraph-poles; +gone the dun and desolate hills. We found ourselves, +instead, at the entrance to a valley which might well +have been the place of exile of Persephone. Symmetrical +squares of bay-green oranges, of soft gray olives +and of yellowing vines turned its slopes into chessboards +of striking verdure. Rows of tall, straight +eucalyptus trees made of the highway a tunnel of +blue-green foliage. The mountains, from foot to summit, +were clothed with lupins of a blue that dulled the +blue of heaven. The oleanders and magnolias and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_263"></a>[263]</span> +palms and clumps of bamboo about the ranches gave +to the scene an almost tropical luxuriance. This was +the vale of Santa Clara—not to be confused with the +valley of the same name farther north—perhaps the +richest and most prosperous agricultural region for +its size between the oceans and certainly the least +advertised and the least known. Unlike the residents +of other parts of California, its residents issue no enticing +literature depicting the surpassing beauties and +attractions of their valley as a place of residence, for +the very good reason that they do not care to sell, +unless at prohibitive prices. They have a good thing +and they intend to keep it. Less than twoscore miles +in length, the Santa Clara Valley, which begins at +Saugus and runs westward to Ventura-by-the-Sea, +comes nearer to being frostless than any region in the +State, save only the Imperial Valley. But its industries +are by no means restricted to the cultivation of +citrus fruits, for the walnuts it produces are finer than +those of England, its figs are larger than those of +Smyrna, and its olives more succulent than those grown +on the hills of Greece.</p> + +<p>As with engines droning like giant bumblebees we +sped down the eucalyptus-bordered highway which +leads to Santa Paula, the valley was flooded with the +rare beauty of the fleeting twilight of the West. The +sky, a moment before a dome of lapis lazuli, merged +into that exquisite ashes-of-roses tint which is the +foremost precursor of the dark, and then burst, all +unexpectedly, into a splendid fiery glow which turned<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_264"></a>[264]</span> +the western heavens into a sheet of rosy coral. But, +like most really beautiful things, the Californian sunsets +are quick to perish. A few moments only and the +rose had dulled to palest lavender and this to amethyst +and this in turn to purple and then, at one bound, +came the night, and our head lamps were boring twin +holes in the velvety, flower-scented darkness. Before +us the street lights of Santa Paula burst into flame +like a diamond necklace clasped about the neck of a +lovely woman.</p> + +<p class="tb">The region of which Lake Tahoe is the centre is +difficult to describe; one is drawn illusively into over-praising +it. Yet everything about it—the height of the +surrounding mountains, the vastness of the forests, +the size of the trees, the beauty of the wild flowers, +the grandeur of the scenery, the colourings of the lake +itself—is so superlative that, to describe it as it really +is, one must, perforce, lay himself open to the charge +of exaggeration. There is no lake in Switzerland or, +for that matter, anywhere else in Europe which is +Tahoe’s equal. To find its peer you will need to go to +Lake Louise, in the Canadian Rockies, or, better still, +to some of the mountain lakes of Kashmir. Here, set +down on the very ridge-pole of the High Sierras, is a +lake twenty-two miles long by ten in width, the innumerable +pleasure craft whose propellers churn its +translucent waters into opaline and amaranthine hues +being nearly a mile and a quarter above the surface +of the Pacific. To attempt to describe its ever-changing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_265"></a>[265]</span> +and elusive colourings is as futile as to describe the +colours of a sunset sky, of a peacock’s tail, of an opal. +Looked at from one point, it is blue—the blue of an +Ægean sky, of a baby’s eyes, of a turquoise or of a +sapphire—but an hour later, or from another angle, +it will be green: a gorgeous, glorious, dazzling green, +sometimes scintillating like an emerald of incredible +size, sometimes lustreless as a piece of jade. In the +bays and coves and inlets which corrugate its shores +its waters become even more diverse in colouring: +smoke grey, pearl grey, bottle green, Nile green, yes, +even apple green, lavender, amethyst, violet, purple, +indigo, and—believe me or not, as you choose—I have +more than once seen Tahoe so rosy in the reflected +<i>alpenglow</i> of twilight that it looked for all the world +like a sheet of pinkest coral. Its shores are as diverse +as its colourings, pebbly beaches alternating with +emerald bays; pine-crowned promontories; snug coves +on whose silver beaches bathers disport themselves +and children gambol; moss-carpeted banks shaded by +centenarian trees; cliffs, smooth as the side of a house, +rising a thousand feet sheer above the water; and, +here and there, deep and narrow inlets so hemmed in +by vertical precipices of rock that to find their like you +would have to go to the Norwegian fiords. Completely +encircling the lake, like watchful sentinels, rise the +snow peaks—not the domesticated mountains of the +Adirondacks or the Alleghenies, but towering monsters, +ten, twelve, fifteen, thousand feet in height and +white-mantled throughout the year—the monarchs of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_266"></a>[266]</span> +the High Sierras. From the snow-line, which is generally +about two thousand feet above the surface of +the lake and ten thousand feet above the level of the +sea, the coniferous Sierran forests—the grandest and +most beautiful in the world—clothe the lower slopes +of the mountains in mantles of shaggy green which +sweep downward until their hems are wet in the waters +of the lake.</p> + +<p>One of the most distinguishing and pleasing characteristics +of these Sierran forests is their inviting +openness. The trees of all the species stand more or +less apart in groves or in small, irregular groups, enabling +a rider to make his way almost anywhere, along +sun-bathed colonnades and through lush, green glades, +sprinkled with wild flowers and as smooth as the lawns +of a city park. Now you cross a forest garden ariot +with wild flowers, now a mountain meadow, now a +fern-banked, willow-shaded stream, and ever and anon +emerge upon some granite pavement or high, bare +ridge commanding superb views of majestic snow-peaks +rising grandly above the intervening sea of evergreen. +Every now and then you stumble upon mountain +lakes tucked away in the most unexpected places, +gleaming amid the surrounding forest like sapphires +which a jeweller has laid out for inspection upon a +green plush cloth. The whole number of lakes in the +Sierras is said to be upward of fifteen hundred, not +counting the innumerable smaller pools and tarns. +Another feature of the High Sierras are the glacier +meadows: smooth, level, silky lawns, lying embedded<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_267"></a>[267]</span> +in the upper forests, on the floors of the valleys, and +along the broad backs of the ridges at a height of from +eight to ten thousand feet above the sea. These mountain +meadows are nearly as level as the lakes whose +places they have taken and present a dry, even surface, +free from boulders, bogs, and weeds. As one suddenly +emerges from the solemn twilight of the forest into +one of these dreamy, sunlit glades, he looks instinctively +for the dainty figures of Watteau shepherdesses +or for the slender forms of sportive nymphs. The close, +fine sod is so brightly enamelled with flowers and butterflies +that it may well be called a meadow garden, for +in many places the plushy turf is so thickly strewn with +gentians, daisies, ivesias, forget-me-nots, wild honeysuckle, +and paint-brush that the grass can scarcely +be seen.</p> + +<p>In certain of these mountain meadows I noticed a +phenomenon which I have observed nowhere else save +in Morocco: the flowers, instead of being mixed and +mingled in a huge bouquet, grew in distinct but adjacent +patches—a square of blue forget-me-nots here, a +blanket of white daisies there, a strip of Indian paint-brush +over there, and beyond a dense clump of wild +lilac—so that from a little distance the meadow looked +exactly like a great floral mosaic. It was very beautiful. +On the higher slopes the scarlet shoots of the snow-plant +dart from the soil like tongues of flame. Around +it hangs a pretty native legend. Two young braves, +so the legend runs, made desperate love to an Indian +princess, who at length chose the one and turned away<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_268"></a>[268]</span> +the other. On the marriage day the rejected lover +ambushed himself in the forest, and, as his rival went +riding past to claim his bride, sent an arrow twanging +into his breast. But, though wounded unto death, the +lover clung to his horse and raced through the forest +to die in the arms of his bride. As he sped his heart’s +blood, welling forth, left a trail of crimson splotches +on the ground behind him. And wherever a drop of +blood fell, there a blood-red flower sprang into bloom. +If you doubt the story you can see and pick them for +yourself.</p> + +<p>Set high on the western shore of Tahoe, and so +appropriately designed that it seems to be a part of +the forest which encircles it, is Tahoe Tavern—a long, +low hostelry of shingles, stone, and logs, its deep verandas +commanding an entrancing view of the lake +and of the mountainous Nevada shore, for the California-Nevada +boundary runs down the middle of the +lake. Just as the smart set along the Atlantic seaboard +flock to Newport, Narragansett, and Bar Harbour in +the summer, so the corresponding section of society +upon the Pacific Coast may be found at Tahoe from +July to September. A narrow-gauge railway, leaving +the main line of the Southern Pacific at Truckee, two +hundred miles or so east of San Francisco, hugs the +brawling Truckee to the Tavern, a distance of a dozen +miles, whence steamers convey the visitor to the +numerous hotels, camps, and cottages which dot the +shores of the lake. The summers are never warm on +Tahoe, nor, for that matter, ever uncomfortably cool,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_269"></a>[269]</span> +while the air is as crisp and invigorating as extra-dry +champagne. From the first of July to the first of +October it almost never rains. And yet ninety-nine +Easterners out of a hundred pity the poor Californians +who, they imagine, are sweltering in semitropic heat.</p> + +<p>One never lacks for amusement at Tahoe. Lean +power-boats tear madly from shore to shore, their +knife-like prows ploughing the lake into a creamy +furrow. Hydroplanes hurtle by like leaping tunas. +There is angling both in Tahoe and the maze of adjacent +lakes and lakelets for every variety of trout that +swims. There is bathing—if one doesn’t mind cold +water. At night white-shouldered women and white-shirted +men dip and hesitate and glide on the casino’s +glassy floor to the impassioned strains of “Get Out and +Get Under” and “Too Much Mustard.” But trail +riding is the most characteristic as it is the most exciting, +diversion of them all. It is really mountaineering +on horseback—up the forested slopes, across the gaunt, +bare ridges, and so to the icy summits, on wiry ponies +which are as sure-footed as mountain-goats and as active +as back-yard cats. The narrowness of many of the +trails, the slipperiness of ice and snow, the giddiness of +the sheer cliffs, the thought of what would happen if +your horse <i>should</i> stumble, combine to make it an +exciting amusement. You can leave the shores of the +lake, basking in a summer climate, with flowers blooming +everywhere, and in a two hours’ ride find yourself +amid perpetual snow. It is a novel experience, this +sudden transition from July to January, and not to be<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_270"></a>[270]</span> +obtained so readily anywhere else that I know, unless +it be in a cold-storage plant. On the Fourth of July, +for example, after a late breakfast, the Lady and I +waved <i>au revoir</i> to our white-flannelled friends on the +Tavern’s veranda and before noon were pelting each +other with snowballs on a snow-drift forty feet deep, +with Lake Tahoe, gleaming beneath the sun like a gigantic +opal, three thousand feet below us. There may, +of course, be more enchanting vacation places than +this Tahoe country—higher mountains, grander forests, +more beautiful lakes, a better climate—but I do not +know where to find them.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_271"></a>[271]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="X">X<br> +<span class="smaller">“WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON”</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_272"></a>[272]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“I hear the far-off voyager’s horn;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">I see the Yankee’s trail—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His foot on every mountain pass,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">On every stream his sail.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="center">...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“I hear the mattock in the mine,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The axe stroke in the dell,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The clamour from the Indian lodge,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The Jesuit chapel bell!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“I see the swarthy trappers come</div> + <div class="verse indent2">From Mississippi’s springs;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And war-chiefs with their painted brows</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And crests of eagle wings.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Behind the scared squaw’s birch canoe</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The steamer smokes and raves;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And city lots are staked for sale</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Above old Indian graves.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="center">...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Each rude and jostling fragment soon</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Its fitting place shall find—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The raw material of a State,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Its muscle and its mind.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_273"></a>[273]</span></p> + +<h3>X<br> +<span class="smaller">“WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON”</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>With a rattle of wheels and a clickety-clack of +hoofs the coach bore down upon us, its yellow +body swaying drunkenly upon its leathern springs. It +was a welcome sight, for since early morning we had +been journeying through a region sans sign-posts, sans +houses, sans people, sans everything. I threw up my +hand, palm outward, which is the recognised halt +sign of the plains, and in obedience to the signal the +sombreroed driver pulled his wheelers back on their +haunches and jammed his brakes on hard. Half a +dozen bearded faces peered from the dim interior of +the vehicle to ascertain the reason for the sudden +stop.</p> + +<p>“Are we right for the Columbia?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“You betcha, friend,” said the driver, squirting a +jet of tobacco juice with great dexterity between the +portals of his drooping moustache. “All ye’ve got to +do is keep ’er headed north an’ keep agoin’. You’re +not more nor sixty mile from the river now. How +fur’ve ye come with that there machine, anyway?”</p> + +<p>“From Mexico,” I replied a trifle proudly.</p> + +<p>“The hell you say!” he responded with open admiration.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_274"></a>[274]</span> +“An’ where ye bound fur, ef I might make +so bold’s to ask?”</p> + +<p>“As far north as we can get,” I answered. “To +Alaska, if the roads hold out.”</p> + +<p>“Waal, don’t it beat the Dutch what things is +acomin’ to anyway,” he ejaculated, “when ye kin git +into a waggin like that there an’ scoot acrost the country +same’s ye would on a railroad train? I’ve druv +this old stage forty year come next December, but the +next thing ye know they’ll be wantin’ an autermobile, +an’ me an’ the critters’ll be lookin’ fer another job. +But that’s progress, an’ ’tain’t no manner o’ use tryin’ +to buck it. These old Concords hev done a heap toward +civilisin’ the West, but their day’s about over, I +reckon, an’ the autermobile will come along an’ take +up the job where they left off. Come to think on it, +it’s sorter ’s if the old style was shakin’ hands an’ sayin’, +‘Glad tew meet you’ to the new. But I’ve got your +Uncle Sam’l’s mail to deliver an’ I can’t be hangin’ +’round here gossipin’ all day.”</p> + +<p>He kicked off his brake, and his long whip-lash, +leaping forward like a rattlesnake, cracked between +the ears of his leaders. “Get to work there, ye lazy, +good-fer-nothin’ sons o’ sea-cooks, you!” he bellowed.</p> + +<p>“S’long, friend, an’ good luck to ye,” he called +over his shoulder. The whip-lash cracked angrily +once more, wheelers and leaders settled into their collars, +and the coach tore on amid a rolling cloud of dust.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus28" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus28.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>THE OVERLAND MAIL.</p> + <p>“With a rattle of wheels and a clickety-clack of hoofs the coach + bore down upon us.”</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>“That was perfectly wonderful,” said the Lady, +with a little gasp of satisfaction. “That was quite<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_275"></a>[275]</span> +the nicest thing we’ve seen since we left Mexico. I +didn’t know that that sort of thing existed any more +outside of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West.”</p> + +<p>“It won’t exist much longer,” said I. “This +Oregon hinterland is the last American frontier, but +the railway is coming and in a few more years the only +place you will be able to see a Concord coach like the +one we just met will be in a museum or on a moving-picture +screen. The old fellow was perfectly right when +he said that our meeting typified the passing of the old +and the coming of the new.”</p> + +<p>“I’m awfully sorry for them,” remarked the Lady +abstractedly.</p> + +<p>“Sorry for whom?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“Why,” she answered, “for the people who can +only see this wonderful West on moving-picture +screens.”</p> + +<p class="tb">We took the back-stairs route to Oregon. When we +turned the bonnet of the car northward from Lake +Tahoe, we had the choice of two routes to the Columbia. +One of these, which we would have taken had we followed +the advice of every one with whom we talked, +would have necessitated our retracing our steps across +the High Sierras to Sacramento, where we would have +struck the orthodox and much-travelled highway that +runs northward through the Sacramento Valley, via +Marysville and Red Bluff and Redding, enters the Siskiyous +at Shasta and leaves them again at Grant’s +Pass, and keeps on through the fertile and thickly settled<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_276"></a>[276]</span> +valleys of the Rogue, the Umpqua, and the Willamette, +to Portland and its rose gardens. The other +route, which is ignored by the road-books and of which +those human road-books who run the garages seemed to +be in total ignorance, strikes boldly into the primeval +wilderness that lies to the north of Tahoe, parallels for +close on two hundred miles the western boundary of +Nevada, crosses the Oregon border at Lower Klamath +Lake, and then, hugging the one hundred and twenty-second +parallel like a long-lost brother, climbs up and up +and up over the savage lava beds, through the country +of the Warm Springs Indians, across the fertile farm +lands of the Inland Empire, and so down the Cañon +of the Deschutes to where the rocky barrier of The +Dalles says to the boats upon the Columbia: “You can +go no further.” This is the famous Oregon Trail, which +lies like a long rope thrown idly on the ground, abandoned +by the hand that used it. Though the people +with whom we talked urged us not to take it, prophesying +long-neglected and impassable roads and total +lack of accommodation and all manner of disaster, +we stubbornly persisted in our choice, lured by the +romantic and historic memories that hover round it; +for was it not, in its day, one of the most famous of +all the routes followed by mankind in its migrations; +was it not the trail taken by those resolute frontiersmen +who won for us the West?</p> + +<p>We were warned repeatedly, by people who professed +to know whereof they spoke, that, if we persisted +in taking this unconventional and therefore<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_277"></a>[277]</span> +perfectly ridiculous route, we would experience great +difficulty in crossing the mountains, and, as some of +our informants cheeringly observed, it was dollars to +doughnuts that we wouldn’t be able to cross them at +all. But as we had had experiences with these brethren +of calamity howlers while motoring in Rhodesia and +in Grande Kabylie and in the Anti-Lebanon, their +mournful prognostications did not trouble us in the +least. In fact, they but served to whet our appetites +for the anticipated adventures. As a matter of fact, +throughout the entire thousand miles that our speedometer +recorded between Tahoe and The Dalles, not +once did we cross any mountains worthy of the name, +for our route, which had been carefully selected for +its easy gradients long years before our time by men +who traversed it in prairie-schooners instead of motor-cars +and whose motive power was oxen instead of +engines, lay along the gently rolling surface of that +great mile-high plateau which parallels the eastern +face of the Cascade Range and comes to a sudden termination +in the precipitous cliffs which turn the upper +reaches of the Columbia into a mighty gorge.</p> + +<p>Turning our tonneau upon Truckee and its brawling +trout-stream, we struck into the forest as the +compass needle points, with Susanville one hundred +and fifty miles away, as our day’s objective. (Who +Susan was I haven’t the remotest idea, unless she was +the lady that they named the black-eyed daisies after.) +For hour after hour the road wound and turned and +twisted through the grandest forest scenery that can<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_278"></a>[278]</span> +be found between the oceans. To our left, through +occasional breaks in the giant hedge of fir and spruce +and jack-pine, we caught fleeting glimpses of Pilot +Peak, whose purple summit has doubtless served as a +sign-post for many an Oregon-bound band of pioneers. +To us, who had seen only the tourist California and the +highly cultivated valleys of the interior, these Californian +highlands proved a constant source of joy and +self-congratulation. We felt as though we were explorers +and, so far as motoring for pleasure in that +region is concerned, we were. But the greatest revelation +was the road. We had expected to need the +services of an osteopath to rejoint our dislocated vertebræ +and, to modify the anticipated jolts, I had had +the car equipped with shock-absorbers and had taped +the springs. We could, however, have gone over that +road with no great discomfort in a springless wagon, +for, upon a roadbed undisturbed for close on half a +century by any traffic worthy of the name, had fallen +so thick and resilient a blanket of pine-needles that +we felt as though a strip of Brussels carpet had been +laid for our benefit, as they do in Europe when royalty +has occasion to set foot upon the ground. The sunbeams, +slanting through the lofty tree tops, dappled +the tawny surface of the road with golden splotches +and fleckings, squirrels chattered at us from the over-arching +boughs; coveys of grouse, taken unaware by +the stealth of our approach, rocketed into the air, +wings whirring like machine guns, only to settle unconcernedly +as soon as we had passed; an antlered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_279"></a>[279]</span> +stag bounded suddenly into the road, stood for an +instant motionless as though cast from iron, with wide-open, +startled eyes, and disappeared in panic-stricken +flight; once, swinging silently around a turning, we +came upon a black bear gorging himself at the free-lunch +counter that the wild blackberries provide along +the road; but before we could get our rifles out of their +cases he had crashed his way into underbrush too +dense for us to follow. Nor did we have any great +desire to follow. The smoothness and silence of the +road were too enchanting. Hour after hour we sped +noiselessly along without a glimpse of a human being +or a human habitation. There were no sign-posts to +point the way and we wanted none.</p> + +<p>But all good things must end in time, and our +pine-carpeted road debouched quite unexpectedly into +the loveliest valley that you ever saw. Perhaps it is +because its sylvan serenity is undisturbed as yet by +the jeering screech of the locomotive, but you will +need to use much gasoline and wear out many tires +before you will happen upon anything more idyllic +than those cloistered and incredibly fertile acres that +sweep down from the summit of the Iron Hills to the +margin of Honey Lake. The trim white farmhouses +that peep coquettishly, like bashful village maidens, +from amid the fragrant orchards at the passer-by; the +fields green-carpeted with sprouting grain; the barns +whose queer hip-roofs made them look as though they +were aburst with stored-up produce, as, indeed, they +are; the sleek cattle, standing knee-deep in a lake as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_280"></a>[280]</span> +clear as Circe’s mirror—all these things spell p-r-o-s-p-e-r-i-t-y +so plainly that even those who whirl by, as +we did at forty miles an hour, may read.</p> + +<p>Susanville, which is built on a hill at the end of +Honey Lake Valley, very much as the Italian hill +towns command the tributary countryside, is a quiet +rural community that has been stung by the bee of +progress and is running around in circles in consequence. +When we were there a railroad was in course of construction +for the purpose of tapping the wealth of this +rich but hitherto unexploited region, and the main +street of the town, which we reached on a Saturday +evening, was alive with farmers who had come in to +do their week-end shopping, cow-punchers in gaudy +neckerchiefs and Angora chaps, fresh from the ranges, +engineers in high-laced boots and corduroy trousers, +sun-tanned labourers from all four corners of Europe +and the places in between. As a result of this week-end +influx, the only hotel that Susanville possessed +was filled to the doors.</p> + +<p>“I can’t even fix you up with a pool-table, gents,” +said the shirt-sleeved proprietor, mopping the perspiration +from his forehead with a violent-hued bandana; +“and what’s more, every blame boardin’-house +in town’s just as full up as we are.”</p> + +<p>“But we <i>must</i> find some place to sleep,” I asserted +positively. “We’ve a lady with us, you see, and she +can’t very well sleep in the open—or on a pool-table +either, can she?”</p> + +<p>“A lady? God bless my soul! Why didn’t you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_281"></a>[281]</span> +say so? Well, now, that’s too durned bad. But hold +on a minute, friends. I wouldn’t be s’prised if Bill +Dooling, the barber, could fix you up. He’s got a cottage +down the road a piece and I’ll send a boy along +with you to show you where he lives.”</p> + +<p>Bill the barber and his family, which consisted of +his wife, his mother—known as granmaw—nine children +who had reached the age of indiscretion, and a +baby, dwelt in a vine-clad cottage as neat as the proverbial +beeswax and about as roomy as a limousine.</p> + +<p>“Sure,” said he cordially, when I had explained +our predicament, “we’ve got slathers of room. We’ll +fix you up and welcome. You and the lady can have +Rosamond Clarissa’s room, and your friend here can +have the boys’ room across the hall, and your showfer +can sleep in Ebenezer’s bed. Me and the wife’ll fix +ourselves up on the porch, and granmaw she’ll go +acrost the street to a neighbour’s, and Abel and Absalom +and David and Rosamond Clarissa and Ebenezer and +Elisha and Gwendoline Hortensia and Hiram and +Isaiah’ll sleep in the tent. Sure, we’ve got all the +room you want.”</p> + +<p>“You must have almost as much trouble in finding +names for your children,” the Lady remarked, +“as the Pullman Company does in naming its sleeping-cars.”</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s this way, ma’am,” he explained. “Me +and maw have a sort of an agreement. She names +the girls and gets the names out of the magazines. I +name the boys and get the names out of the Bible.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_282"></a>[282]</span> +She hoped that the baby’d be a girl so’s she could name +her Patricia Penelope, but seeing as it’s a boy it’s up +to me, and I haven’t been able to make up my mind +yet between Jabez, Josiah, and Jeremiah.”</p> + +<p>Barring the fact that we were awakened at a somewhat +unseasonable hour by a high-voiced discussion +between Rosamond Clarissa and Gwendoline Hortensia +as to which should have the privilege of washing +the baby, we were very comfortable indeed—very +much more so, I expect, than if we had been able to +obtain quarters at the hotel—and, after a breakfast +of berries with cream that was not milk incognito, and +coffee, and hot cakes, and eggs that tasted as though +they might have originated with a hen instead of a +cold-storage vault, we rolled away with the hospitable +barber and his brood waving us Godspeed from the +doorstep.</p> + +<p>It is in the neighbourhood of two hundred and +fifty miles from Susanville to the Oregon line, the +earlier portion of the journey taking us through a +forest that had evidently never known the woodsman’s +axe. North of Dry Lake Ranch, which is the only +place in between where a motorist can count on finding +a bed to sleep in or a bite to eat, a grazing country of +remarkable fertility begins, much of it having been +taken up by Czechs from Bohemia: a stolid, sturdy, +industrious folk who work themselves and their patient +families and the ground unremittingly and whose +prosperity, therefore, passes that of their more shiftless +neighbours at a gallop. This fringe of farming<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_283"></a>[283]</span> +communities, although in California, really mark the +beginning of that great, rich agricultural region comprising +the back country of Oregon which, because of +its prosperity, its extent, and its wealth of resources, is +known as the Inland Empire.</p> + +<p>A few miles beyond these Bohemian settlements +we caught our first glimpse of Lower Klamath Lake, +whose low and marshy shores, which lie squarely +athwart the boundary between California and Oregon, +forming a spring and autumn rendezvous for untold +thousands of wild fowl, the government having set it +aside as a sort of natural aviarium.</p> + +<p>“Look!” suddenly exclaimed the Lady, pointing. +“The shores of the lake are covered with snow!”</p> + +<p>But what looked for all the world like an expanse +of snow suddenly transformed itself, as we drew near, +into a cloud of huge, ungainly birds with perfectly +enormous bills, creating a racket like a thousand motor-cars +with the beating of their wings.</p> + +<p>“Pelicans, by Jove!” exclaimed my friend, and +that is what they were—thousands, yes, tens of thousands +of them. The pelican, as we learned later, is +the symbol, as it were, of all this Klamath country, +the really beautiful hotel at Klamath Falls being +named The White Pelican, “perhaps,” as the Lady +observed, “because of the size of its bill.” However +this may be, it is a very excellent hotel, indeed, and if +you ever chance to find yourself in that part of the +country I would advise you to spend a night there, if +for no other reason than to enjoy the novel experience<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_284"></a>[284]</span> +of staying in a hostelry which would do credit to Fifth +Avenue and looking out of your window on a frontier +town. This, mind you, is casting no aspersions on +Klamath Falls, which is a very prosperous and wide-awake +little place indeed, although ten years ago you +would have had some difficulty in finding it on the map, +its mushroom growth being due to the development of +the immense lumber territory of which, since the completion +of the railway, it has become the centre. As a +matter of fact, the hotel was not built so much for the +convenience of the traveller as it was for the comfort +of the handful of Eastern capitalists whose great lumber +interests necessitate their spending a considerable +portion of the year in Klamath Falls and who demanded +the same luxuries and conveniences in this backwoods +town that they would have on Broadway. That +explains why it is that in this remote settlement in +the wilderness you can get a room furnished in cretonne +and Circassian walnut, with a white porcelain +bathroom opening from it, and can sit down to dinner +at a red-shaded table in a gold-and-ivory dining-room. +I know a man who keeps a private orchestra of thirty +pieces, year in and year out, for his own amusement, +but these Oregon lumber kings are the only men I +have ever heard of who have built a great city hotel +purely for their personal convenience.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus29" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus29.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>Crater Lake: “It looks like a gigantic + wash-tub filled with blueing.”</p> + <p>A flock of young pelicans on the shores of Lower Klamath Lake.</p> + <p>IN THE OREGON HINTERLAND.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>The late E. H. Harriman, knowing the continent +and having the continent to choose from, built a shooting +lodge on the shores of Upper Klamath Lake, to +which he was wont to retreat, after the periodical<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_285"></a>[285]</span> +strikes and railroad mergers and congressional investigations +which punctuated his career, for rest and recreation. +After the death of the great railway builder +the lodge was purchased by the same group of men +who built The White Pelican Hotel and has been converted +into a sort of sporting resort <i>de luxe</i>. They call +it Pelican Bay Lodge, and I know of nothing quite +like it anywhere. It consists of perhaps a dozen log +cabins, externally as rough as any frontiersman’s +dwelling, but steam-heated, luxuriously furnished, and +liberally bathtubised.</p> + +<p>Pelican Bay Lodge is the most convenient starting-point +for that mountain mystery known as Crater +Lake, which lies forty miles to the north of it and six +thousand feet above it, in the heart of the Cascade +Range. It took us five hours of steady running to +cover those forty miles, and we didn’t stop to pick +wild flowers either. The road is a very beautiful one, +winding steadily upward through one of the finest +pine forests on the continent. The last mile is more +like mountaineering than motoring, however, for the +road, in order to attain the rim of the lake, suddenly +shoots upward at a perfectly appalling angle—I think +they told me that at one place it had a grade of thirty-eight +per cent—and more than once it seemed to us +who were sitting in the tonneau that the car would +tip over backward, like a horse that rears until it overbalances +itself. Crater Lake is one of those places +where the most calloused globe-trotter, from, whom +neither the Pyramids nor the Taj Mahal would wring<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_286"></a>[286]</span> +an exclamation of approval, gives, perforce, a gasp of +real astonishment and admiration. Part of this is +due, no doubt, to the startling suddenness with which +you come upon it and to its dramatic situation; the +rest to its surpassing beauty and its extraordinary +colour. The lake, which occupies the crater of an extinct +volcano the size and height of Mount Shasta, is +almost circular, half a mile deep, five miles in circumference, +and nearly a mile and a half above sea-level, +the rocky walls which surround it being in places two +thousand feet high and as sheer and smooth as the +side of an upright piano. But its outstanding feature +is its colour, for it is the bluest blue you ever saw or +dreamed of: as blue as lapis lazuli, as a forget-me-not, +as an Italian sky, as a baby’s eyes (provided, of +course, that it is a blue-eyed baby), or as a Monday +morning. It looks, indeed, like a gigantic wash-tub, +filled with bluing, in which some weary colossus has +been condemned to wash the clothing of the world.</p> + +<p>Nothing that we had seen since leaving Mexico so +profoundly stirred my imagination as that portion of +our road which stretched northward from Crater Lake, +through Crescent and Shaniko, to The Dalles. Every +few miles we passed groups of dilapidated and decaying +buildings, with sunken roofs and boarded windows, +which must once have been busy road-houses and +stage stations, for near them were the remains of great +barns and tumble-down corrals, now long since disused—melancholy +reminders of those days, half a +century agone, when down this lonely road that we<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_287"></a>[287]</span> +were following plodded mile-long wagon-trains, the +heads of women and children at every rent and loophole +of the canvas tops, the men, rifle on shoulder, +marching in the dust on either hand. Few, indeed, of +these pioneers were rich in anything save children, +affluent except in expectations; yet weather, roads, +fare, mishaps—nothing daunted them, for they were +“going West.”</p> + +<p>Roughly speaking, it is a hundred miles from +Shaniko to The Dalles, over a road most of which is +back-breakingly rough and all of which is so intolerably +dusty that we felt as though we were covered with +sandpaper instead of skin. But the scenery of the +last half dozen miles caused us to forgive, if not to +forget, the discomforts and the monotony of those +preceding, for in them we dropped down through the +wild and winding gorge which the Deschutes follows +on its way to join hands with its big sister, the Columbia. +The nearer we drew to the mighty river the higher +our expectations grew, and every time we topped a +rise or swung around a granite shoulder we searched +for it eagerly, just as our migrating predecessors must +have done. But, owing to the high, sheer cliffs that +wall it in, we caught no glimpse of it whatever until, +our road emerging from the cañon’s mouth upon the +precipice’s brink, we suddenly found ourselves looking +down upon it as it lay below us in all its shimmering +and sinuous beauty, its silvery length winding away, +away, away: eastward to its birthplace in the country +of the Kootenai: westward to Astoria and its mother,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_288"></a>[288]</span> +the sea. Far below us, so far below that it looked like +the little wooden villages you see in the windows of +toy stores, the white houses of The Dalles were clustered +upon the river’s banks.</p> + +<p class="tb">The highroad, which had been palpably ailing for +some time, took a sudden turn for the worse a few +miles south of The Dalles, so that, when it found the +great, peaceful, silent-flowing Columbia athwart its +path, the temptation became too great to resist and it +ended its misery in the river, leaving us, its faithful +friends, who had borne it company all the way from +Mexico, disconsolate upon the bank. Thus it befell +that we were compelled to put the car and ourselves +aboard a boat and trust to steam, instead of gasoline, +to bear us over the ensuing section of our journey. +It was a humiliating thing for motorists to have to do, +of course—but what would you? There were no more +roads. We were in the deplorable position of the man +who told his wife that he came home because all the +other places were closed. And think how keenly the +veteran car—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Me that ’ave been what I’ve been,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Me that ’ave gone where I’ve gone,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Me that ’ave seen what I’ve seen”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="noindent">—must have felt the disgrace of being turned over to +a crew of stevedores and a ruffianly, tobacco-chewing +second mate, who unceremoniously sandwiched it +between a pile of milk-cans and a crate of cabbages on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_289"></a>[289]</span> +the lower deck of a chug-achug-chugging stern-wheel +river boat.</p> + +<p>But before the rickety deck chairs had ceased +their creaking complaints about the burden we had +imposed on them we were congratulating ourselves +on the circumstance that had forced us to exchange a +hot and dusty highroad for a cool and silent waterway. +To me there is something irresistibly fascinating +and seductive about a river. I always find myself +wondering where it comes from, and what strange +things it has seen along its course, and where it is going +to, and I invariably have a hankering to take ship and +keep it company. And the greater the stream, the +greater its fascination, because, of course, it has travelled +so much farther. Now the Columbia, as that +friend of our boyhood, Huck Finn, would have put it, +is no slouch of a river. If its kinks and twists were +carefully straightened out it would reach half-way +across the continent, or as far as from New York to +Kansas City. It is somewhat disturbing for one who +visits the valley of the Columbia for the first time, +with the purpose of writing about it, to have these +facts suddenly thrown, as it were, in his face, particularly +if, like myself, he has been brought up in that +part of the country where the Hudson is regarded as +the only real river in America—doubtless because it +washes the shores of Manhattan—and where all other +waterways are looked upon as being not much better +than creeks. I felt like apologising to somebody, and +when, on top of all this, I was told that the Columbia<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_290"></a>[290]</span> +and its tributaries drain a region equal in area to all the +States along our Atlantic seaboard put together, I had +a sudden desire to go ashore at the next landing and +take a train back home.</p> + +<p>Though of British birth, for it has its source above +the Canadian line in the country of the Kootenai, the +Columbia emends this unfortunate circumstance by +becoming naturalised when it is still a slender stripling, +dividing its allegiance, however, between Oregon and +Washington, for which it serves as a boundary for upward +of four hundred miles. It is not only the father +of Northwestern waters, but it is the big brother of all +those streams, from the Straits of Behring to the Straits +of Magellan, which call the Pacific Ocean “grandpa.” +By white-hulled river steamer, by panting power-boat, +by produce-laden barge, by bark canoe, by the goatskin +raft called <i>kelek</i>, I have loitered my leisurely +way down many famous rivers—the St. Lawrence, +the Hudson, the Mississippi, the Fraser, the Skeena, +the Rio Balsas, the Rhine, the Danube, the Volga, the +Euphrates, the Ganges, the Zambesi, the Nile—and I +assert, after having duly weighed my words, that in +the continuity and grandeur of its scenery the Columbia +is the superior of them all. If you think that I am carried +away by enthusiasm you had better go and see +it for yourself.</p> + +<p>It was Carlyle—was it not?—who remarked that +all great works produce an unpleasant impression on +first acquaintance. It is so with the Columbia. We +saw it first on a broiling August day from the heights<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_291"></a>[291]</span> +above Celilo—the great, silent, mysterious river winding +away into the unknown between banks of lava as +sinister and forbidding as the flanks of Etna, and with +a sun beating down upon it from a sky of molten brass. +There were no grassy banks, no trees, no flowers, no +vegetation of any kind, none of the things that one +usually associates with a river. But when the steamer +bears you around the first of those frowning cliffs +that rise sheer from the surface of the river below The +Dalles—ah, well, that is quite another matter.</p> + +<p>Since Time began, the sheets of lava which give +The Dalles its name, by compressing the half-mile-wide +river into a channel barely sixscore feet across, +have effectually obstructed continuous navigation upon +the Upper Columbia. But, as towns multiplied and +population increased along the upper reaches of the +great river and its tributaries in Washington and +Oregon, in Montana and Idaho, this hinderance to the +navigation of so splendid a waterway became intolerable, +unthinkable, absurd. At last the frock-coated +gentlemen in Congress were prodded into action, and +the passage of a bill for the construction of a canal +around The Dalles, at Celilo, was the result. Came +then keen-eyed, self-reliant men who, jeering at the +obstacles which Nature had heaped in their path, +proceeded to slash a canal through eight miles of shifting +sands and basalt rock, so that hereafter the fruit +growers and farmers and ranchers as far inland as +Lewiston, in Idaho, can send their produce down to +the sea in ships.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_292"></a>[292]</span></p> + +<p>“The trouble with the Columbia,” complained +the Lady, “is that it’s all scenery and no romance. +It’s too big, too prosaic, too commercial. It doesn’t +arouse any overwhelming enthusiasm in me to be told +that this river irrigates goodness knows how many +thousand square miles of land, or that the top of that +mountain over there is so many thousand feet above +the level of the sea, or that so many thousand barrels +of apples were grown last year in the valley we just +passed and that they brought so many dollars a barrel. +Facts like those are all well enough in an almanac, +because no one ever reads almanacs anyway, but they +don’t interest me and I don’t believe that they interest +many other visitors, either. If a river hasn’t any romance +connected with it, it isn’t much better than a +canal. Don’t you remember that rock in the Bosphorus, +near Scutari, to which Leander used to swim out +to see Hero, and how when we passed it the passengers +would all rush over to that side of the deck, and how +the steamer would list until her rail was almost under +water, and how the Turkish officers would get frightened +half to death and shove the people back? You +don’t see the passengers on this boat threatening to +capsize it because of their anxiety to see something +romantic, do you? I should say not. Do you remember +Kerbela, that town on the Euphrates, where all +Persians hope to be buried when they die, and how, +long before we reached there, we could smell the +Caravans of the Dead which were carrying the bodies +there from across the desert? And those crumbling,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_293"></a>[293]</span> +ivy-covered castles along the Rhine, with their queer +legends and traditions and superstitions? That’s +what I mean by romance, and you know as well as I +do that there is nothing romantic about apple orchards +and salmon canneries and sawmills. Is there?”</p> + +<p>“Pardon me, madam,” said a gentleman who had +been seated so close to us that he could not help overhearing +what she said and who had been unable to +conceal his disagreement with the views she had expressed, +“but do you see that island over there near +the Washington shore? The long, low one with the +little white monument sticking up at the end of it. +That is Memaloose—the Island of the Dead. It is +the Indian Valhalla. Talk about the Persians whose +bodies are borne across the desert to be buried at Kerbela! +Did you happen to know that on the slopes of +that island are buried untold thousands of Chinooks, +whose bodies were brought on the backs of men hundreds +of miles through the wilderness or in canoes +down long and lonely rivers that they might find their +last resting-places in its sacred soil? And the monument +that you see marks the grave of a frontiersman +who was as romantic a character as you will find in +the pages of Fenimore Cooper. His name was Victor +Trevet; he knew and liked the Indians; and he asked +to be buried on Memaloose that his bones might lie +among those of ‘honest men.’ Is it legend and tradition +that you say the river lacks? A few miles ahead +of us, at the Cascades, the river was once spanned, according +to the Indian legend, by a stupendous natural<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_294"></a>[294]</span> +bridge of rock. The Indians called it the Bridge of the +Gods. The great river flowed under it, and on it lived +a witch woman named Loowit, who had charge of the +only fire in the world. Seeing how wretched was the +lot of the fireless tribes, who had to live on uncooked +meats and vegetables, she begged permission of the +gods to give them fire. Her request was granted and +the condition of the Indians was thus enormously +improved. So gratified were the gods by Loowit’s +consideration for the welfare of the Indians that they +promised to grant any request that she might make. +Womanlike, she promptly asked for youth and beauty. +Whereupon she was transformed into a maiden whose +loveliness would have caused Lina Cavalieri to go out +of the professional beauty business. The news of her +beauty spreading among the tribes like fire in summer +grass, there came numberless youths who pleaded for +her hand, or, rather, for the face and figure that went +with it. Among them were two young chieftains: +Klickitat from the north and Wiyeast from the west. +As she was unable to decide between them, they and +their tribesmen decided to settle the rivalry with the +tomahawk. But the gods, angry at this senseless waste +of lives over a pretty woman, put Loowit and her two +gentlemen friends to death and sent the great bridge +on which she had dwelt crashing down into the river. +But as they had all three been good to look upon in +life, so the gods, who were evidently æsthetic, made +them good to look upon even in death by turning them +into snow peaks. Wiyeast became the mountain which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_295"></a>[295]</span> +we palefaces call Mount Hood; Klickitat they transformed +into the peak we know as Mount Adams; while +Mount Saint Helens is the beautiful form taken by the +fair Loowit. Thus was the wonderful Bridge of the +Gods destroyed and the Columbia dammed by the +débris which fell into it. In a few minutes we will be +at the Cascades and you can see the ruins of the bridge +for yourself. And, if you still have any lingering doubts +as to the truth of the story, why, there is Klickitat in +his white blanket rising above the forests to the right, +and Wiyeast is over there to your left, and ahead of +us, down the river, is the Loowit lady disguised as +Mount Saint Helens. So you see there is no room for +doubt.</p> + +<p>“You assert that the Columbia is lacking in romance +because, forsooth, no Leander has swum across +it to see a Hero. Good heavens, my dear young lady, +I can tell you a story that has more all-wool-and-a-yard-wide +romance in it than a dozen such Hellespontine +fables. Did you never hear of Whitman the missionary, +who, instead of crossing a measly strait to +win a woman, crossed a continent and won an empire?</p> + +<p>“In the early forties Whitman established a mission +station near the present site of Walla Walla. Hearing +rumours that our government was on the point of accommodatingly +ceding the Valley of the Columbia to +England in return for some paltry fishing rights off +the banks of Newfoundland—the government officials +of those days evidently preferred codfish to salmon—he +rode overland to Washington in the dead of winter,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_296"></a>[296]</span> +through blinding snow-storms, swimming icy rivers, +subsisting on his pack-mules and his dogs when his +food ran out, facing death by torture at the hands of +hostile Indians. Gaining admission to the White +House in his dress of furs and buckskin, with his feet +and fingers terribly frozen, he so impressed President +Tyler and Secretary of State Webster by his vivid +description of the richness and fertility of the region +which they were on the point of ceding to England +that he saved the entire Pacific Northwest to the +Union. If that isn’t sufficient romance for you, then +I’m afraid you’re hard to please.”</p> + +<p>“I surrender,” said the Lady. “Your old Columbia +has plenty of romance, after all. The trouble is +that tourists don’t know these interesting things that +you’ve just been telling us and they <i>do</i> know all about +the Danube and the Rhine.”</p> + +<p>“That’s easily remedied,” said I. “I’ll tell them +about it myself.”</p> + +<p>And that, my friends, is precisely what I have +just been trying to do.</p> + +<p class="tb">“Next stop Hood River!” bawled the purser.</p> + +<p>“That’s where the apples come from,” remarked +our deck acquaintance, who had turned himself into a +guide-book for our benefit. “In some of the orchards +up the valley you’ll find apples with paper letters +pasted on them: ‘C de P’ for the Café de Paris, you +know, and ‘W-A’ for the Waldorf-Astoria, and ‘G R +& I’ for Georgius Rex et Imperator—which is <i>not</i> the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_297"></a>[297]</span> +name of the restaurant. They paste the letters on +quite carefully when the apples are still green upon +the tree, and when they ripen the paper is torn off, +leaving the yellow initials on the bright red fruit. +Those are the apples that they serve at royal banquets +and that they charge a dollar apiece for in the smart +restaurants in Europe. I don’t mean to imply that +all of the Hood River apples are thus initialled to order, +but some of them are. The average value of the land +in that valley, cultivated and uncultivated, is three +hundred and forty dollars an acre, and if a man wanted +to purchase an orchard in bearing he would have to +pay at least four thousand dollars an acre for it. Some +people think that it was the original Garden of Eden. +If it was, I don’t blame Eve for stealing the apple. +I’d steal a Hood River apple myself if I got the chance.”</p> + +<p>Had the second mate been a little more obliging, +and had there not been so formidable a barricade of +crates and milk cans about the car, I would have had +it run ashore then and there and would have taken a +whirl through the famous apple orchards which cover +the lower slopes of Mount Hood and have kept on up +the zigzag mountain road as far as the cosy little +hostelry called Cloud Cap Inn, which some public-spirited +Portlander has built upon the snow-line. Perhaps +it was just as well we didn’t, however, for I learned +afterward that the famous valley is only about twenty +miles long, so, if we had not put on the emergency +brake before we started, we would have run through it +before we could have stopped and would not have seen<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_298"></a>[298]</span> +it at all. Nowhere in Switzerland do I recall a picture +of such surpassing splendour as that which stood before +us, as though on a titanic easel, as, from the vantage +of the steamer’s upper deck, we looked up the vista +formed by this fragrant, verdant valley toward the +great white cone of Mount Hood. It is, indeed, so +very beautiful that those Americans who know and +love the world’s white rooftrees can find scant justification +for turning their faces toward the Alps when +here, in the upper left-hand corner of their own country, +are mountains which would make the ghost of the +great Whymper moan for an alpenstock and hobnailed +boots. This startlingly sudden transition from +orchards groaning with fruit to dense primeval forests, +and from these forests to the stately, isolated snow +peaks, is very different from Switzerland, of course. +Indeed, to compare these mountains of the Pacific +Northwest with the Alps, as is so frequently done, +seems to me to be a grave injustice to them both. The +Alps form a wild and angry sea of icy mountains, and +we have nothing in America to which they can be fittingly +compared. The Cascades, on the other hand, +form a great system of lofty forest-wrapped ranges +surmounted by the towering isolated peaks of snowy +volcanoes, and Europe contains nothing to equal them. +I am perfectly aware, of course, that the very large +number of Americans who spend their summers in the +ascent of the orthodox Swiss peaks—more often than +not, if the truth were known, by means of funicular +railways or through telescopes on hotel piazzas—look<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_299"></a>[299]</span> +with scorn and contumely upon these mountains of +the far Nor’west, which they regard as home-made and +unfashionable and vulgar and not worth bothering +about. Perhaps they are not aware, however, that no +less an authority on mountaineering than James Bryce +(I don’t recall the title that he has taken now that he +has been made a peer, and no one would recognise him +if I used it) said not long ago, in speaking of these sentinels +that guard the Columbia:</p> + +<p>“We have nothing more beautiful in Switzerland +or Tyrol, in Norway or the Pyrenees. The combination +of ice scenery with woodland scenery of the +grandest type is to be found nowhere in the Old World, +unless it be in the Himalayas, and, so far as we know, +nowhere else on the American continent.”</p> + +<p>Which but serves to point the truth that foreigners +are more appreciative of the beauties and grandeurs +of our country than we are ourselves.</p> + +<p class="tb">At the Cascades the Columbia takes a drop of +half a hundred feet and we had, perforce, to bide our +time in the locks, by means of which the rapids have +been circumvented, until the waters found their level. +It is not until the Cascades are passed that the scenery +for which the Columbia is famous begins in all its +sublimity and grandeur. The Great Artist has painted +pictures more colourful, more sensational, perhaps, as +the Grand Cañon, for example, the Yellowstone, and +the Sahara, but none which combines the qualities of +strength and restfulness as this mighty river, flowing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_300"></a>[300]</span> +swiftly, silently between the everlasting hills. From +the shores the orchards and the gardens rise, terrace +above terrace, until they become merged in the forest-covered +ranges, and above the ranges rise the august +snow peaks, solitary, silent, like a line of sentries strung +along the horizon. At times, particularly in the early +morning and again at sunset, these snow mountains +present that singular appearance familiar to the traveller +in the Himalayas and the Cordilleras, when the +snowy cone seems to be floating ethereally upon a sea +of mist which completely shrouds the hills and forests +at its base. Immediately below the Cascades commences +the series of waterfalls for which the lower +reaches of the Columbia are famous, the granite cliffs +which, for nearly twoscore miles border the Oregon +shore with a sheer wall of rock, being scored at frequent +intervals by what seem, from a distance, to be +ribbons of shining silver. As the boat draws nearer, +however, you see that what looked like ribbons are +really mountain streams which are so impatient to +join their mother, the Columbia, that, instead of taking +the more sedate but circuitous route, they fling themselves +tempestuously over the brink of the sheer cliff +into the arms of the parent stream. First come the +Horsetail Falls, whose falling waters, blown by the +wind into silvery strands, are suggestive of the flowing +tail of a white Arab; then, in quick succession, the +Oneonta Falls, at the end of a narrow gorge which +penetrates the cliffs for a mile or more; the nine-hundred-feet-high +Multnomah, the highest falls in all +the northwest country if not, indeed, on the entire<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_301"></a>[301]</span> +Pacific Coast; the Bridal Veil, as radiantly beautiful +as its namesake of the Yosemite; and finally, just +below the great monolith rising from the river known +as Rooster Rock, the Falls of Latourelle. On the opposite +shore the mighty promontory known as Cape +Horn rises five hundred feet above the surface of the +river, and, a few miles farther up-stream, Castle Rock, +whose turreted crags bear a striking resemblance to +some stronghold of the Middle Ages, attains to twice +that height. By the time the steamer reaches the +mighty natural gateway known as the Pillars of Hercules, +the traveller is actually surfeited with grandeur +and is quite ready for the simple, friendly, pastoral +scenes again, just as one after a season of Wagnerian +opera welcomes the simple airs and the old-fashioned +songs.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus30" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus30.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>“WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON.”</p> + <p>The Columbia from Saint Peter’s Dome, with Mount Adams in the distance. + “The Great Artist has painted pictures more colorful, more sensational, + perhaps, but none which so combine the qualities of strength and + restfulness as this mighty river.”</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>As I do not chew popcorn, peanuts, gum, or candy, +nor munch dripping ice-cream cones, and as I have an +unconquerable aversion to other people doing those +unpleasant things in my immediate vicinity, I left the +others, who did not seem to mind such minor annoyances, +among the excursionists upon the upper deck +and made my way below. After clambering over great +piles of crates, sacks, and barrels filled with Columbia +River produce, I finally succeeded in finding a secluded +spot in the vessel’s bows, whence I could watch, undisturbed +by sticky-fingered youngsters or idle chatter, +the varied commerce of the mighty water road. Stern-wheel, +twin-funnelled passenger boats zigzagged from +shore to shore to pick up the passengers and freight +that patiently awaited their coming; rusty freighters<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_302"></a>[302]</span> +scuttled down-stream laden with fruit for the coast +towns and salmon for the Astoria canneries; spick-and-span +pleasure craft, with shining brass work +and graceful, tapering spars, daintily picked their way +through the press of river traffic as a pretty girl picks +her way along a crowded street; grimy fishing craft, +their sails as weather-beaten as the faces of the men +that raise them, danced by us, eager for home and +supper and the evening fire; great log rafts wallowed +by, sent down by the forests to propitiate the greedy +sawmills, whose sharp-toothed jaws devour the sacrifice +and scream for more.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the most interesting and characteristic +feature of the landscape along the lower Columbia +are the fish-wheels—ingenious contrivances, twenty +to forty feet in diameter and six to eight feet across, +which look like pocket editions of the passenger-carrying +Ferris wheel at the Chicago Exposition. The +wheels, which are hung in substantial frameworks +close to the banks, where the salmon run the thickest, +are revolved by the current, which keeps the wire-meshed +scoops with which each pair of spokes are fitted +for ever lifting from the water. The great schools of +salmon are guided toward the wheel by means of a lattice +dam which reaches out into the river like the arm +of a false friend, and, before the unsuspecting fish +know what has happened to them, they are hoisted +into the air in the wire scoops and dumped into an +inclined trough, down which they slide into a fenced-in +pool, where the fishermen can get them at their leisure. +They are then strung on wires and attached to a barrel<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_303"></a>[303]</span> +which acts as a buoy, the barrel, sometimes with a ton +of fish trailing behind it like the tail to a kite, floating +down-stream to the nearest cannery, where a man in a +launch is on the lookout and tows them ashore. +Months later, in Pekin or Peoria, in Rome or Rumford +Falls, or wherever else you may happen to be dining, +you will see the item “Columbia River Salmon” +on the hotel menu.</p> + +<p>As I hung over the steamer’s bow, with the incomparable +landscape slipping past me as though on +Burton Holmes’s picture screen, and no sound save +the muffled throbbing of the engines and the ripple of +the water running aft along the hull, I unconsciously +yielded to the Columbia’s mystic spell. I closed my +eyes and in a moment the surface of the river seemed +peopled with the ghosts of the history makers. Nez +Percés, in paint and feathers, slipped silently along, +in the shadow of yonder wooded bank, in their barken +war canoes. Two lean and sun-bronzed white men, +clad in the fringed buckskin of the adventuring frontiersman, +floated past me down the mighty stream +which they had trekked across a continent to find. +Half-breed trappers, chanting at the paddles, descended +with precious freights of fur. A square-rigged merchantman +poked its inquisitive bowsprit around a +rocky headland, and as she passed I noted the words +<i>Columbia, of Boston</i>, in raised gilt letters on her stern, +and I remembered that it was from this same square-rigged +vessel that the river took its name. A warship, +flying the flag of England and with the black muzzles +of guns peering from its rows of ports, cautiously<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_304"></a>[304]</span> +ascended, the leadsmen in the shrouds sounding for +river bars. Log forts and trading-posts and mission +stations once again crowned the encircling hills. Forgotten +battles blew by on the evening breeze. A yellow +dust cloud rose above the river bank and out of it +emerged a plodding wagon-train. The smoke of pioneer +camp-fires spiralled skyward from those rich valleys +where in reality the cattle browse and the orchards +droop with fruit. From the vantage of a rocky promontory +a ghostly war party peered down upon me—a +paleface—taking a summer’s holiday along that mighty +stream upon whose bosom of old went forth the bepainted +fighting men. The furtive twilight slipped +behind night’s velvet curtain. The mountains changed +from jade to coral, from coral to sapphire, from sapphire +to amethyst. The snow peaks gleamed luminously, +like sheeted ghosts, against the purple velvet of +the sky. The night-breeze rose and I shivered. The +steamer swung silently around a bend in the river +and, all suddenly, the darkness ahead was sprinkled +with a million blinking fireflies. At least they looked +like fireflies.</p> + +<p>“Portland!” shouted a raucous voice, far off +somewhere, on the upper deck. “Portland! All +ashore!”</p> + +<p>I felt a hand upon my shoulder. It was the Lady.</p> + +<p>“Where on earth have you been?” she asked. +“We have been hunting for you everywhere.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve been on a long journey,” said I.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_305"></a>[305]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="XI">XI<br> +<span class="smaller">A FRONTIER ARCADY</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_306"></a>[306]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Oh, woods of the West, I am sighing to-day</div> + <div class="verse indent2">For the sea songs your voices repeat,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For the evergreen glades, for the glades far away</div> + <div class="verse indent2">From the stifling air of the street.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“And I long, ah, I long to be with you again,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And to dream in that region of rest,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Forever apart from this warring of men—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Oh, wonderful woods of the West.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_307"></a>[307]</span></p> + +<h3>XI<br> +<span class="smaller">A FRONTIER ARCADY</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>“<i>Arcady—the home of piping shepherds and coy shepherdesses, +where rustic simplicity and plenty satisfied the ambition of untutored +hearts and where ambition and its crimes were unknown.</i>”</p> + +<p>Some pamphlet writer with a gift for turning +phrases has called Oregon “The Land That Lures.” +And, so far as home and fortune seekers are concerned, +it is. Whether it is the spirit of romance that our +people have always associated with the great Northwest; +whether it is the glamour of its booming rivers +and its silent, axe-ripe forests or the appeal of its soft +and balmy climate; or whether it is the extraordinary +opportunities it offers for the acquirement of modest +fortunes before one is too old to enjoy them, I do not +know, but the undeniable fact remains that no region +between the Portlands exercises so irresistible a fascination +for the man who knows the trick of coaxing a +fortune from the soil as this great, rich, hospitable, +unfenced, forest-and-mountain-and-stream, meadow-and-orchard-and-home +land that stretches from the +Columbia south to the Siskiyous. It may be that +California holds more attractions for the man who has +already made his fortune, but certainly Oregon is the +place to make the fortune in. No Western State is +essentially less “Western” in the accepted sense of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_308"></a>[308]</span> +term. This is due in part, no doubt, to the fact that +it has been longer settled by Americans than any other +portion of the Pacific Coast. Portland was a thriving +city, remember, when St. Paul and Minneapolis were +little more than trading-posts on the frontier. Settlers +from the Atlantic seaboard and from the Middle +West find themselves, upon reaching Oregon, in the +midst of “home folks” and all the friendly, kindly, +homely things that the term implies: ice-cream sociables +and grange meetings and church picnics and +literary societies and debating clubs and county fairs. +The name of the State capital is inseparably associated +with Puritan New England, one of its largest cities is +named after the Massachusetts town which gave its +name to rum, and I can show you a score of towns +whose peaceful, elm-shaded streets and white-porticoed, +red-brick houses might almost—but hot quite—deceive +you into thinking that you are in Cooperstown, +N. Y., or Newburyport, Mass., or Biddeford, Me. +Almost, as I have said, but not quite, for all of +these Oregonian towns, despite the staidness and sobriety +of their appearance, are animated by an enthusiasm, +an up-to-dateness, by an unshakable faith +in their future, that is essentially a characteristic of +the West.</p> + +<p>The orthodox way of entering Oregon from the +south is by way of Ashland, Medford, and Grant’s +Pass, and so northward, through Roseburg and Eugene +and Albany and Salem, to Portland. But, as I have +related in the preceding chapter, we deliberately chose<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_309"></a>[309]</span> +the back-stairs route, crossing the California-Oregon +line at Klamath Lake and motoring northward, along +the trail of the Lewis and Clark expedition, via Crater +Lake and the valley of the Deschutes to The Dalles, +and thence down the Columbia to Portland. We +prided ourselves on having thus obtained an extraordinarily +comprehensive idea of the State and its resources, +not to mention having traversed a region +which is quite inaccessible to the tourist unless he +travels, as we did, by motor-car, but when we came +to talk with some people from western Oregon we found +that we didn’t know nearly as much about the State +as we thought we did.</p> + +<p>“How did you find the roads in the Willamette +Valley?” inquired a friend with whom we were dining +one night in Portland.</p> + +<p>“We haven’t seen the Willamette Valley,” I explained. +“You see, we came round the other way.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose you’ve been down to Salem, though—nice +city, Salem.”</p> + +<p>“No,” I was forced to admit, “we haven’t been to +Salem.”</p> + +<p>“What did you think of the Marble Halls? +Many people claim they’re finer than the Mammoth +Cave.”</p> + +<p>“The Marble Halls? Where are they? What are +they? I never heard of them.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose you had some fine fishing in the Grant’s +Pass country. I hear that the trout are running big +down there this season.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_310"></a>[310]</span></p> + +<p>“No, we didn’t come through Grant’s Pass.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you surely don’t mean to tell me that you +didn’t visit the Rogue River Valley—the apple-cellar +of the world?”</p> + +<p>“Sorry to say we didn’t.”</p> + +<p>“Nor the valley of the Umpqua?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” after a long and painful pause, “what in +the name of Heaven <i>have</i> you seen?”</p> + +<p>“I think,” said I, turning to the others, “that the +thing for us to do is to turn the car south again and see +Oregon. Else we shall never be able to hold up our +heads and look an Oregonian in the eye. The thousand +miles or so of the State that we’ve just come through +apparently don’t count.”</p> + +<p>Though I made the remark facetiously, it contained +a good-sized germ of truth. Just now the back +country of Oregon, the hinterland, as our Teutonic +friends would call it, doesn’t count for very much. It +is going to count tremendously, mind you, in the not +far distant future, when the railroads now under construction +have opened it up to civilisation and commerce +and when it is settled by the European hordes +that will pour into it through the gateway of Panama. +As things stand at present, however, the wealth and +prosperity of Oregon are concentrated in that comparatively +narrow but incredibly fertile zone which lies +between the sea and the mile-high mountain wall formed +by the Cascades, and whose farms and orchards are +watered by the Willamette, the Umpqua, and the Rogue.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_311"></a>[311]</span></p> + +<p>It was one of those autumn days so characteristic +of the Pacific Northwest, which seem to be a combination +of an Italian June and a Devonshire September, +when we slipped out of Portland’s rush and bustle and +turmoil and turned our front tires toward the south and +the open country. For a dozen miles or more our +road, built high on the hill slope above the broad +reaches of the lower Willamette, commanded as entrancing +a vista of beautiful homes as I have ever seen. +For six solid miles south of Portland the banks of the +Willamette are bordered by country houses of shingle, +stone, and stucco, rising from the most beautiful +rose gardens this side of Persia (Portland, you know, +is called “The City of Roses”) and with shaven lawns +sweeping gently down, like unrolled carpets, to the +river’s edge. Through gaps in the screen of shrubbery +which lines the highway we caught fleeting glimpses, +as we whirled past, of vine-covered garages housing +shiny motor-cars, while along the river front were +moored lean power-boats, every line of them bespeaking +speed, for those who are fortunate enough—and wealthy +enough—to own homes upon the Willamette are able +to run in to their offices in the city either by road or +river. Far in the distance the Fujiyama-like cone of +Mount Saint Helens rose above the miles of intervening +forest, and, farther to the southward, the hoary head +of Mount Hood. About this portion of residential +Portland which lies along the banks of the Willamette +there is a suggestion of the Thames near Hampton +Court, a hint of the Seine near Saint Cloud, a subtle<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_312"></a>[312]</span> +reminder of those residences which have been built by +the rich of Budapest along the Danube, but most of +all it recalls Stockholm. This is due, I suppose, to the +proximity of the forests which surround the city, to +the snow-capped mountains which loom up behind +them, and to the ever-present scent of balsam in the +air.</p> + +<p>It is fifty miles or thereabout from Portland to +Salem, which is the capital of the State, and when the +roads are dry you can leave one city after an early +dinner and reach the other before the theatre curtains +have gone up for the first act. After a rain, however, +it is a different matter altogether, for the roads, which +leave a great deal to be desired, are for the most part +of red clay, and so slippery that a car, even with chains +on all four wheels, slips and slides and staggers like a +Scotchman going home after celebrating the birthday +of Robert Burns. Salem is as pleasing to the eye as a +certified cheque. It is asphalted and electric-lighted +and landscaped to the very limit. Though the residential +architecture of the city shows unmistakable +traces of the influence of both Queen Anne and Mary +Anne, their artistic deficiencies are more than counter-balanced +by the pleasant, shady lawns and the broad, +hospitable piazzas, which seem to say to the passer-by: +“Come right up, friend, and sit down and make yourself +to home.” That’s the most striking characteristic +of the place—hospitality.</p> + +<p>The gates of the State Fair were thrown open the +same day that we arrived in Salem, though I do not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_313"></a>[313]</span> +wish to be understood as intimating that the two events +bore any relation to each other. Now, a fair is generally +a pretty reliable index to the agricultural condition +of a region. The first thing that strikes the visitor +upon entering the gates of a New England fair is the +extraordinary number of ramshackle, mud-stained, +“democrat” wagons lined up along the fence, the horses +munching contentedly in their nose-bags. The first +thing that struck me as we entered the grounds of the +Oregon State Fair was the extraordinary number of +shiny new automobiles. Save en route to a Vanderbilt +Cup Race, I don’t recall ever having seen so many +motor-cars on one stretch of road as we encountered +on our way to the fair-grounds. They made a noise +like the droning of a billion bumblebees. Though +there was, of course, a preponderance of little cars, +there were also any number of big six-cylinder seven-passenger +machines, for your Oregonian is nothing if +not up to the minute. Instead of jogging in from the +farm in rattletrap wagons, they came tearing down +the pike in shiny, spick-and-span automobiles; pa at the +steering-wheel, hat on the back of his head and whiskers +streaming, ma in her new bonnet sitting proudly beside +him, and grandma and the youngsters filling up the +tonneau. It did my heart good to see them. There is +an intangible something about a motor-car that seems +to give the most hidebound old farmer in the community +a new lease of life. A year or so ago a weekly magazine +published a picture of a group of cars at some rural +gathering in the Northwest, and unwisely labelled it:<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_314"></a>[314]</span> +“Where the old cars go to.” It elicited a wave of +indignant letters from automobile dealers and automobile +owners in that section of the country that made +the editor feel as though he had stepped on a charged +wire. That gentleman learned, at the cost of several +cancelled subscriptions, that, wherever else the second-hand +cars go, they certainly do not go to the Northwest, +whose people might well take as their motto: +“The best is none too good for us.”</p> + +<p>Your Oregonian farmer, unlike his fellows in the +older, colder States, is neither hidebound nor conservative. +He has no kinship with the bewhiskered, bebooted, +by-gum and by-gosh hayseed made familiar +by the comic papers and the bucolic dramas. Instead +of shying from a new-fangled device as a horse does +from a steam roller, he promptly gives it a trial and, +if it makes good, he adopts it. He milks his cows and +makes his butter by electricity, orders his groceries +from the nearest town and asks for the baseball score +by telephone, goes to church and to market in his +motor-car, and passes his evenings with the aid of a +circulating library, a pianola, and a phonograph. It +did not take me long to find out that Oregon is as progressive +agriculturally as it is politically. If the farmer +does not succeed in Oregon it is because he has been +hypnotised by those siren sisters, Obstinacy and Laziness; +for if he is ignorant, the State stands ready to +educate him; if he is perplexed, it stands ready to +advise him; and if he gets into trouble, it stands ready +to assist him. In other words, it wants him to make<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_315"></a>[315]</span> +good, and it isn’t the fault of the State if he does not. +For this purpose it maintains, in addition to the State +Agricultural College at Corvallis, which is one of the +most completely equipped institutions of its kind in +the world, six experimental farms which are geographically +distributed so as to meet practically every condition +of agriculture found in Oregon. Two extensive +demonstration farms are maintained, moreover, by +business interests, and there is an enormous amount +of agricultural co-operative work among the farmers +themselves, so that if a man is in doubt as to whether +he had better go in for Jerseys or Holsteins, for White +Wyandottes or Plymouth Rocks, for Spitzenbergs or +Newtown Pippins, all he has to do to obtain expert +advice is to ask for it.</p> + +<p>It is an undeniable fact that at most fairs in the +East, and at a great many in the West, for that matter, +the wheel-of-fortune, the ring-and-cane, and the +three-balls-for-a-dime-and-your-money-back-if-you-hit-the-coon +concessionaires, the fat woman, the living skeleton, +the bearded lady, and the wild man from Borneo, to +say nothing of the raucous-voiced venders of ice-cold-lemonade-made-in-the-shade +and red-hot-coney-islands-only-a-nickel-half-a-dime, +serve to distract both the +attention and the shekels of the rural visitors from the +legitimate exhibits. It seemed to me that the farmers +and fruit growers who came pouring into the Salem +fair were there for purposes of education rather than +recreation. They seemed to take the fair seriously and +with the idea of obtaining all the information and suggestions<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_316"></a>[316]</span> +that they could from it. Eager, attentive +groups surrounded the lecturers from the State Agricultural +College and constantly interrupted them with +intelligent, penetrating queries as to soils, grafting, +fertilisers, insect sprays, and the like, while out in the +long cattle sheds the men who are growing rich from +milk and butter talked of Aaggie Arethusa Korndyke +Koningen Colantha Clothilde Netherland Pietertje’s +Queen of the Dairy IV and of Alban Albino Segis Pontiac +Johann Hengerveld’s Monarch of the Meadows +(the bearer of this last resonant title proving, upon +investigation, to be a wabbly-kneed three-weeks-old +calf) as casually as a New Yorker would refer to Connie +Mack or Caruso or John Drew.</p> + +<p>We went to the fair, as I have already intimated, +for the primary purpose of getting a line on rural conditions +as they exist in Oregon; but that did not prevent +us from doing things which visitors to county +fairs have done ever since county fairs began. We tossed +rings—three-for-a-dime-step-right-this-way-and-try-your-luck-ladies-and-gents—over +a bed of cane heads so temptingly thick that it seemed it would be only +by a miracle that you could miss one, and after spending +a dollar in rings the Lady won a bamboo walking-stick +which she could have bought for ten cents almost +anywhere and which she didn’t have the remotest use +for, anyway. We tried our luck at breaking clay pipes +in the shooting-gallery, and, in spite of the fact that +the sights on my rifle had been deliberately hammered +a quarter of an inch out of line, I succeeded in winning<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_317"></a>[317]</span> +three dubious-looking cigars, to the proprietor’s very +great astonishment. Had I smoked them I should not +have survived to write this story. Then we leaned over +the pig-pens and poked the pink, fat hogs with the +yard-sticks which some enterprising advertiser had +forced upon us; in the art department we gravely +admired the cross-stitched mottoes bearing such virtuous +sentiments as, “Virtue Is Its Own Reward,” and +“There’s No Place Like Home,” and the water-colour +studies of impossible fruit perpetrated “by Jane Maria +Simpkins, aged eleven years.” Then we went over to +the race-track and hung over the rail and became as +excited over the result of the 2.40 free-for-all as we used +to be in the old days at Morris Park before the anti-racing +bill became a law. In fact, I surreptitiously +wagered a dollar with an itinerant book-maker on a +sixteen-to-one shot, on the ground that, as the horse +had the same name as the Lady, it would surely prove +a winner—and lost. Not until dark settled down and +the lights of the homeward-bound cars had turned the +highway into an excellent imitation of the Chicago +freight yards did we climb into the tonneau again, +sticky and dusty and tired, and tell the driver to “hit +it up for the nearest hotel.”</p> + +<p>From Salem to Eugene, down the pretty and well-wooded +valley of the Willamette, is seventy odd miles +as the motor goes, and the scenery throughout every +mile of the distance looks exactly like those pictures +you see on bill-boards advertising Swiss chocolate or +condensed milk—I forget which: black cows with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_318"></a>[318]</span> +white spots, or white cows with black spots, grazing +contentedly on emerald hillsides, with white mountains +sticking up behind; rivers meandering through lush, +green meadows; white farmhouses with red roofs and +neat, green blinds peering out between the mathematically +arranged orchard rows. But always there are +the orchards. No matter how wide you open your +throttle, no matter how high your speedometer needle +climbs, you can’t escape them. They border the road +on both sides, for mile after mile after mile, and in the +spring, when they are in blossom, the countryside looks +as though it had been struck by a snow-storm—and +smells like Roger & Gallet’s perfumery works.</p> + +<p>When I visited the Southwest the horny-handed +farmer folk would meet me when I stepped from the +train and whirl me incredible distances across the +desert to show me a patch of alfalfa—“the finest patch +of alfalfa, by jingo, in the whole blamed State!” In +Oregon they did much the same thing, except, instead +of showing me alfalfa they showed me apples. Up +north of the Siskiyous, they’re literally apple drunk. +They talk apples, think apples, dream apples, eat +apple dumplings and apple pies, drink apple cider +and apple brandy and applejack. Even their women +are apple-cheeked. You can’t blame them for being +a trifle boisterous about their apple crops, however, +when you see what the apple has done for Oregon. I +was shown one orchard of forty-five acres whose crop +had sold the preceding year for seventy-five thousand +dollars. Another orchard of but eight acres brought<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_319"></a>[319]</span> +its owner sixteen thousand dollars. Five hundred +trees yielded another man five thousand dollars. And +I could repeat similar instances <i>ad infinitum</i>. They +assured us in Medford that the apple cellars at Buckingham +Palace and Windsor Castle always contain +barrels stencilled “Grown in Oregon”—which is, I +believe, a fact—and, though they didn’t say so in so +many words, they intimated that when King George +feels the need of a bite after a court ball or some equally +arduous function, he lights a candle and shuffles down +the cellar stairs in his dressing-gown and slippers and +gropes about until he finds an Oregon-grown Northern +Spy or a big, green Newtown Pippin.</p> + +<p>Oregon’s success in apple growing—a success that +has headed the pioneer northwestward as the gold +craze of ’49 started the frontiersman Californiaward—is +the joint product of work and brains. Where New +England has given up all thought of saving her orchards, +Oregon, by tincturing labour with scientific knowledge, +has founded an industry which is doing for the State +what wheat did for the Dakotas, what gold did for +California. What happened to the orchards all through +New England? There was enough hard work put +into them, Heaven knows. The old New England +farmer and his wife slaved to the bone and were eventually +trundled away to the insane asylum or the +cemetery from overwork, from devotion to the arid +soil. The orchards of New England have been watered +with blood and sweat and fertilised with blasted hopes. +The young men were away in the universities acquiring<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_320"></a>[320]</span> +scientific knowledge and learning how to apply that +knowledge on the farms, and it never occurred to the +old men that the wearied soil needed some encouragement, +some strengthening, some vivifying, even as +their spirits did, to bring material and spiritual prosperity. +And Oregon has taken to heart and is profiting +by the pathetic example of the New England farmer.</p> + +<p>It is approximately four hundred miles as a motor +goes from the Columbia to the California line and, as +our object was to see the country, we spent upward of +a week upon the journey, stopping as our fancies +dictated to cast for trout in the swirling rivers, to +gossip with village folk and farmers, and sometimes +just to lie on our backs on inviting hillsides and smoke +and chat and throw pebbles at inquisitive squirrels +and watch the sunbeams filter through the foliage of +the trees. That’s where the true joy of motoring comes +in: to be able to stop when and where you please, without +the necessity of having to give any why or wherefore, +and, when you grow weary of one place, flying +on again until you find another that tempts you. I +have never been able to comprehend why those speed +maniacs who tear through the country so fast that the +telegraph-poles look like palings in a picket fence +bother with automobiles at all; they could travel +quite as fast in a train and ever so much more comfortably.</p> + +<p>From Eugene our course lay south, due south +through a bountiful and smiling land. We tore down +yellow highroads between orchard rows as precisely<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_321"></a>[321]</span> +placed and uniform as ranks of Prussian grenadiers; we +flashed past trim farmhouses overshadowed by huge +hip-roofed barns which seemed to be bursting with produce, +as, in fact, they were; we rolled through villages +so neat and clean and happy that they might have +served as models for the street-car advertisement of +Spotless Town; we spun along the banks of sun-flecked +rivers whose waters were broken by trout +jumping hungry for the fly; we boomed down forest +roads so dim and silent that we felt as though we were +motoring down a cathedral nave; Diamond Peak and +the white-bonneted Three Sisters came into view and +disappeared again; until at last, churning our way up +the tortuous road that climbs the Umpqua Range, we +looked down upon the enchanted valley of the Rogue.</p> + +<p>Imagine a four-hundred-thousand-acre valley, +every foot of which is tilled or tillable, protected on +every side by mountain walls—on the east by the Cascades, +on the west by the Coast Range, on the north +by the Umpqua chain, and on the south by the Siskiyous; +and meandering through this garden valley, +watering its every corner, the winding, mischievous, +inquisitive Rogue. It is indeed a beckoning land. +But mind you, it is not a get-rich-quick land. It is a +work-like-the-devil-and-you’ll-become-prosperous country. +The soil and the climate will do as much for the +farmer, perhaps more, than anywhere else in the world, +but he must do his share. And no one should buy a +ticket to Oregon expecting to find immediate employment +in any line. Jobs are not lying loose on the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_322"></a>[322]</span> +streets, waiting for some one to come along and pick +them up, any more than they are in Chicago or New +York. I doubt very much, indeed, if the workingman +with no other capital than his two hands has much to +gain by emigrating to Oregon. Large projects, it is +true, require many labourers, and these openings +often present themselves; but the means of bringing +in workmen are just as cheap and rapid as in other +sections of the country, so it need not be expected that +there would be any great difference in wages. The +chief advantages that Oregon offers to labouring people +without sufficient accumulations to give them a +start are: a mild and equable climate, an absence of +damaging storms, a certainty of crops, and opportunities +as good, though perhaps no better, than any other +State. If, however, he has been able to accumulate +anywhere from a thousand to three thousand dollars, +he is then in a position to avail himself of the innumerable +opportunities which exist for men of small +capital. Such men will find their best opportunities +in buying a few acres of land, building a modest home +upon it, and then “going in,” as the English say, for +fruit growing or poultry raising or dairying or market-gardening. +As sawmills are as plentiful in Oregon as +pretty women are on Fifth Avenue, and as the State +contains one fifth of all the standing timber in the +country (you didn’t know that, did you?) lumber is +extraordinarily cheap, the cost of the material for a +comfortable four-room farmhouse, for example, not +running to more than one hundred and fifty dollars.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_323"></a>[323]</span> +It is a mistake for the intending emigrant to count on +getting a farm under the terms of the Homestead Act, +for, though the total government lands open to homestead +entry in Oregon are greater in area than the entire +State of West Virginia, they are, for the most part, in +the least desirable portions of the State and the settler +who occupied them would have to pay the price incident +to life in a remote and semicivilised region. On +the other hand, excellent land, within easy reach of +towns and railroads, can be had in the valleys of western +Oregon all the way from fifty to one hundred and +fifty dollars an acre, and this would, I am convinced, +prove the best investment in the end.</p> + +<p>There is no space to dwell at any length on the +towns of western Oregon—Salem, Eugene, Roseburg, +Drain, Grant’s Pass, Medford, Ashland. All of these +towns have paved streets lined with comfortable and +homelike residences and remarkably well-stocked shops; +up-to-the-minute educational, lighting, and sewage +systems; about double the number of parks, hotels, +garages, and moving-picture houses that you would +find in towns of similar size in the East; and boards +of trade and chambers of commerce with enough surplus +energy and enthusiasm to make a booster out of +an Egyptian mummy. In most of these towns prohibition +reigns, and, though, to be quite truthful, I am +not accustomed to raise an admonishing hand when +some one uncorks a gilt-topped bottle, I repeatedly +remarked the fact that they were cleaner, quieter, more +orderly—in short, pleasanter places to live—than those<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_324"></a>[324]</span> +whose streets are dotted by the familiar swinging +half-doors. That prohibition has done no harm to +business is best proved by the fact that the very +merchants who in the beginning were its most bitter +assailants have become its most ardent advocates. +After comparing the “dry” towns of Oregon to the +“wet” ones—say, in the vicinity of Bakersfield, in +California—it seems to me that, so far as the smaller +rural communities are concerned, at least, there is only +one side to the prohibition question.</p> + +<p>Thirty miles from Grant’s Pass, in the fastnesses +of the Siskiyous, are the recently discovered mammoth +caves, which some genius in the art of appellation has +christened “The Marble Halls of Oregon.” It needed +an inspiration to conceive a name like that! Such a +name would induce one to make a trip to see a hole in +a sand-bank. As a matter of fact, these Oregonian +caverns are decidedly worth the journey. Though they +are very far from having been completely explored, +sufficient investigations have been made to prove conclusively +that they are much superior, both in size and +beauty, to the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky, a visit +to which was considered as essential for every well-travelled +American half a century ago as to have seen +the Virginia Natural Bridge and Niagara Falls.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus31" style="max-width: 29.6875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus31.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>Trout fishing in the high Sierras.</p> + <p>Salmon fishing in a Northwestern river.</p> + <p>WHERE RODS BEND DOUBLE AND REELS GO WHIR-R-R-R.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p class="tb">Oregon, with its fish-filled streams, its game-filled +forests, and its coast-line rich in bays and coves and +beaches, possesses all the requisites for one of the +world’s great playgrounds, but some years must pass<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_325"></a>[325]</span> +before it will possess the luxuries demanded by that +class of summer vacationists who travel with wardrobe +trunks. With less than one fifteenth of its sixty odd +million acres under cultivation, it is still to a great +extent a frontier region, with many of a frontier’s +crudities and discomforts and, for a man who knows +and loves the open, with all of a frontier country’s +charm. I am perfectly aware, of course, that the +farmers who are growing such amazing quantities of +big, red apples in the valleys of the Hood and the Rogue +and the real-estate boosters who are so frantically +chopping town sites out of the primeval forest within +cannon-shot of Portland will resent the statement that +this is still a frontier country; but it is, nevertheless, +and will be for a number of years to come. Barring +the system which parallels the coast from north to +south and the one which cuts across its northeast +corner, there are no railways in Oregon; the scantiness +of population and the peculiarly savage nature of a +great portion of the country having offered few inducements +to the railroad builders. This condition is +changing rapidly, however, for the transcontinental +systems which enter the State are working overtime +to give it population, cities and towns and villages +are springing up like mushrooms along its many waterways, +the vast grants held by the railway and trading +companies and by the pioneers are gradually being +cut up into small farms, and a rural situation is being +slowly created which is bound to effect a marked change +in the conditions which have heretofore prevailed.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_326"></a>[326]</span> +But it has not yet, thank Heaven, reached that stage +of civilisation which is characterised by summer hotels +with miles of piazzas and acres of green lawns and oceans +of red-and-white striped awnings. Taking the place +of these sophisticated and ostentatious summer resorts +are the unpretentious inns and camps and summer +colonies which are sprinkled along the Oregon shore +from the mouth of the Columbia to the California line.</p> + +<p>The easiest way to reach this summer land is to +take the little jerk-water railroad which meanders +eastward from Hillsboro, a main-line townlet fifty miles +or so south of Portland, through Tillamook County to +the sea. For many miles the train follows the tumultuous +Nehalem, stopping every now and then, as the +fancy seems to strike it, at shrieking sawmills or at +groups of slab-walled loggers’ shacks set down in clearings +in the forest, where bearded, flannel-shirted men +come out and swap stories and tobacco with the engineer. +After a time the woods begin to dwindle into +tracts of stumps and second-growths, and these merge +gradually into farms, with neat white houses and +orderly rows of fruit-trees and herds of sleek cattle +grazing contentedly in clover meadows. Quite soon +Nehalem Bay comes in sight and the lush meadows +give way to wire-grass and the wire-grass runs out in +beaches of yellow sand so much like those which border +Cape Cod and Buzzard’s Bay that it is hard to believe +that one is not on the coast of New England. From +the names of the towns and from the types of faces +that I saw, I gathered that much of this country was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_327"></a>[327]</span> +settled by New Englanders, who must have found in +its hills and forests and fertile farm lands and alternate +stretches of sandy beach and rock-bound shore much +to remind them of home. Oregon is, as a glance at the +map will show you, in exactly the same latitude as the +New England States and has the same cool, invigorating +summer weather that one finds in Maine, though +its winters, thanks to the warm Japan current which +sweeps along its shores, are characterised by rains instead +of snow. From Nehalem to Tillamook the railroad +hugs the coast. On one side the bosom of the +Pacific rises and falls languorously under a genial sun; +on the other the line of rugged hills, in their shaggy +mantles of green, go up to meet the sky. Here and +there some placid lake mirrors the crags and wind-bent +trees, or a river, complaining noisily at the delay +to which it has been subjected, finds a devious way +through the hindering hill range to the waiting ocean. +Nor are the attractions of the Tillamook country those +of the sea alone, for within a dozen miles of the coast +bear, panther, wildcats, deer, partridge, pheasant, duck, +and geese are to be found, while the mountain streams +are alive with trout waiting to be lured by the fly. +It is a storied region, too, for thousands of moccasined +feet have trod the famous Indian trail which was once +the only route from the wilds of southern Oregon to +the fur-post which the first Astor established at the +mouth of the Columbia and which still bears his name, +and here and there along the coast are the remains of +the forts and trading stations which the Russians, in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_328"></a>[328]</span> +their campaign for the commercial mastery of the +Pacific half a century ago, pushed southward even to +the Bay of San Francisco. The lives led by those who +summer along this shore would delight such rugged +apostles of the simple life as John Muir and John +Burroughs and Colonel Roosevelt, for there is a gratifying +absence of fashionable hotels and luxurious +camps and cottages, though there is an abundance of +unpretentious but comfortable tent colonies and inns. +The people whom I met in Portland and elsewhere +apologised profusely for Oregon’s deficiencies in this +respect and assured me very earnestly that in two or +three years more the State would have a complete +assortment of summer hotels “as good as anything +you’ll find at Atlantic City or Narragansett Pier, by +George.” All I have to say is that when their promises +are realised, Oregon’s chiefest and most distinctive +charm—its near-to-nature simplicity—will have disappeared, +and, so far as the traveller and the pleasure +seeker are concerned, it will be merely an indifferent +imitation of the humdrum and prosaic East. At +present, however, it is still a big, free, unfenced, keep-on-the-grass, +do-as-you-please, happy-go-lucky, flannel-shirt-and-slouch-hat +land. Even as I write I can hear +its insistent, subtle summons in my ears: the whisper of +the forests, the chatter of the rivers, the murmur of the +ocean, the snarling of the sawmills, the chunk-a-chunk +of paddles, the creak of saddle gear, all seeming to say: +“Cut loose from towns and men; pack your kit and +come again.” And that’s precisely what I’m going to do.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_329"></a>[329]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="XII">XII<br> +<span class="smaller">BREAKING THE WILDERNESS</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_330"></a>[330]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“They rise to mastery of wind and snow;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">They go like soldiers grimly into strife</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To colonise the plain. They plough and sow,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And fertilise the sod with their own life,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As did the Indian and the buffalo.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_331"></a>[331]</span></p> + +<h3>XII<br> +<span class="smaller">BREAKING THE WILDERNESS</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>When white men in Africa make long desert +journeys on camel-back, they follow the example +of the Arabs and wind themselves tightly from chest +to hips with bandages like those with which trainers +wrap the legs of race-horses. This, to put it inelegantly +but plainly, is done to prevent their bursting from the +violent and sustained shaking to which they are subjected +by the roughness of the camel’s gait. When I +said good-bye to the Sudan, taking it for granted that +I would have no further use for my spiral corselet in +the presumably civilised country to which I was going, +I left it behind me in Khartoum. How was I to know +that I would need it far more than I ever had in Africa +while journeying in so essentially Occidental a conveyance +as a motor-car through a region where camels +are confined to circuses and Turkish-rug advertisements? +But long before we had traversed the forty +atrocious miles which make the distance between +Portland, Ore., and Kalama, Wash., seem more like +four hundred, I would have given a good deal to have +had my racked and aching body snugly wrapped in +it again. I have had more than a speaking acquaintance +with some roads so bad that they ought to have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_332"></a>[332]</span> +been in jail—in Asiatic Turkey and in Baja California +and in other places—but to the Portland-Kalama road +I present the red-white-and-blue championship ribbon. +Roll down a rocky hillside in a barrel; climb into an +electric churn and tell the dairyman to turn on the +power; ride a bicycle across a railroad trestle and you +will have had but the caviare course of the dinner of +discomfort that was served to us. As, after five hours +of this sort of thing, we bumped our way down a particularly +vicious bit of hill road, every joint and bolt +in the car squealing in agonised complaint, I saw a +prosperous-looking farmer in his shirt-sleeves leaning +comfortably over the front gate, interestedly watching +our progress.</p> + +<p>“St-t-t-op a m-m-m-inute,” I chattered to the +chauffeur, as we jounced into the thank-ye-marms and +rattled over the loose stones, “I w-w-want to t-t-t-t-ell +this m-m-m-an-n-n w-what I think of the r-r-r-oad.”</p> + +<p>As we drew up in front of the gate, the farmer, +taking a straw out of his mouth, drawled:</p> + +<p>“Say, stranger, you might like to know that you’ve +just come over the most gol-damnedest piece of road +north o’ Panama.”</p> + +<p>So, unless the gentlemen who have the say in this +portion of the State of Washington have repaired the +road since we passed over it, I would advise those +automobilists who are Seattle-bound to keep on the +Oregon side of the Columbia as far as Goble (I think +that is the name of the tiny hamlet), where they can +put their car on a barge and hire the ferryman to tow<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_333"></a>[333]</span> +them across the river to Kalama. This will cost them +five dollars, but it’s worth it.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus32" style="max-width: 50em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus32.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><table><tr> + <td class="td2"><p>A road near the Columbia as it was.</p></td> + <td class="td2"><p>A road near the Columbia as it is.</p></td> + </tr></table> + <p>WHAT THE ROAD-BUILDERS HAVE DONE IN WASHINGTON.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Were one to prejudge a country by the names of +its villages and towns and counties he would form a +peculiar conception of Washington, for I do not recall +ever having heard anything quite so outlandish as the +names which some one—the Siwash aborigine, presumably—has +wished upon it. How would you like to get +this sort of a reply to your question as to some one’s +antecedents? “Me? Oh, I was born near Wahkiacus, +down in Klickitat County, and I met my wife, whose +folks live up Snohomish way, in Walla Walla, and +later on we moved to Puyallup, but I’ve a sort of notion +of goin’ into the cannery business at Skamokawa, +over in Wahkiakum County, though the wife, she’s been +a-pesterin’ me to buy an apple orchard up in the Okanogan.” +Still, it’s more interesting to motor through a +country like that, always wondering what bizarre, +heathenish name is going to turn up next, than to tour +through a region sprinkled with Simpson’s Centres +and Cranberry Crossroads and New Carthages and +Hickory Hollows until you feel as though you were an +actor in “The Old Homestead.”</p> + +<p>Throughout our trip through Washington we were +caused untold annoyance, and in several instances +were compelled to travel many weary and needless +miles, because of the wanton destruction of the sign-posts +by amateur marksmen. Up in that country +every boy gets a gun with his first pair of pants, and, +when there is nothing else to shoot, he makes a target<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_334"></a>[334]</span> +of the enamelled guide-posts which have been erected +for the benefit of tourists. More than once, coming +to a crossroads in the forest, we found these placards +so riddled with bullets that we were compelled to guess +which road to take—and we usually guessed wrong. +“I wish to goodness,” said my friend in exasperation, +after we had gone half a dozen miles out of our way on +one of these occasions, “that they would declare a close +season on sign-posts, just as they have on elk, and then +give the man the limit who is caught shooting them.”</p> + +<p>It would be a grave injustice to place undue emphasis +upon the crudities and inconveniences which +annoy the traveller in certain portions of Washington, +for, when you get down to bed-rock facts, its farmers +are still wrestling with the wilderness—and in most +instances they have had to put up a desperate resistance +to keep the wilderness from shoving them off the +mat. We passed through many a community, far +removed from the railway (for the railway builders +have done little more than nibble at the crust of the +Washington pie) where the people were living under +conditions almost identical with those which confronted +the Pilgrim settlers of New England. Many a farmstead +that we passed was chopped out of the virgin +forest, the house being built from the trees that had +grown upon its site. Cleared land, as an Eastern +or Middle Western farmer knows the term, seemed +almost non-existent. Black and massive stumps rose +everywhere, like gravestones to the dead forest. +“There’s so danged many stumps in this country,”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_335"></a>[335]</span> +one of these pioneer farmers remarked, “that sometimes +I think that the Lord never intended for it to be +cleared at all.” The problem of getting rid of these +stumps is one of the most perplexing with which the +Northwestern farmer has to contend, the expense of +clearing land averaging in the neighbourhood of seventy-five +dollars an acre. So inimical to colonisation has +the question of land clearing become, indeed, that the +State has found it necessary to step in and finance the +stump-pullers in districts established in accordance +with recent legislation. Though Washington is a country +of hustle and hard work, no one who spends any +length of time in it can fail to be impressed with the +belief that it has a promising future. The climate is, +as a whole, attractive. Though the cold is never +extreme, the climate does not lack vigour, and, as a +result of the Oregon mists, there is plenty of moisture. +“We call ’em Oregon mists,” a farmer explained to me, +“because they missed Oregon and hit here.” They +are really more of a fog than a rain, and no one pays +the slightest attention to them, even the womenfolk +scorning to use umbrellas. These mists, taken with +the verdancy of the vegetation and the pink-and-white +complexions of the women, constantly reminded me of +Ireland and the south of England. In striking contrast +to the <i>arroyos secos</i> to which we became accustomed +in many parts of California are the streams of Washington, +which flow throughout the year, enough water-power +going to waste annually to run a plant that +would supply the nation.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_336"></a>[336]</span></p> + +<p>As the Pacific Highway goes, it is close to a hundred +and fifty miles from Portland to Tacoma, but we +made a slight detour so as to see Olympia, which is the +capital of the State. Beyond its rococo State-house, +which is surmounted by a statue of a female—it might +be Justice and it might be Mrs. Pankhurst in her +peignoir—there is nothing to distinguish Olympia +from any one of a score of other pretty little towns +whose back doors open onto the primeval forest. +Because there was a moon in the heavens as big and +yellow as a Stilton cheese, we decided to push on to +Tacoma, which is thirty miles from Olympia, that +night. I’ll not soon forget the beauty of that ride. +With our engines purring like a contented cat we +boomed down the radiant path that our headlights +cut out of the darkness; the night air, charged with +balsamic fragrance, beat in our faces; the black walls +of the forest rose skyward on either hand, the tree +tops bordering with ghostly hedges a star-sprinkled +lane of sky. I wish you might have been there ... it +was so enchanting and mysterious.</p> + +<p>The theatres were vomiting their throngs of playgoers +when we rolled under the row of electric arches +which turns Tacoma’s chief thoroughfare into an avenue +of dazzling light and drew up beneath the grotesque +and towering totem-pole in the square in front of our +hotel. Tacoma is as up-and-doing a city as you will +find in a week’s journey through a busy land. It does +not need to be rapped on the feet with a night-stick to +be kept awake. Magnificently situated on a series of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_337"></a>[337]</span> +terraces rising above an arm of Puget Sound, its streets, +instead of defying the steepness of the hills, as do those +of San Francisco and Seattle, sweep up them in long +diagonals, like the ramps at the Grand Central Terminal +in New York. Tacoma is peculiarly fortunate in +being girdled by a series of so-called natural parks, a +zone ten miles in width in which the landscape architect +has not been permitted to improve on the lakes and +woods and wild-flower-carpeted glades provided by the +Creator. But Tacoma’s chief boast and glory is, of +course, a mountain whose graceful, snow-capped cone, +which bears an astonishing resemblance to Fujiyama, +rises like an ermine-mantled monarch above the encircling +forest. The name of the mountain is Rainier +or Tacoma, according to whether you live in Seattle +or Tacoma, an acrimonious dispute having been in +progress between the people of the two cities over the +question for some time, the citizens of Seattle claiming +that the mountain is far too beautiful to be used as an +asset in Tacoma’s municipal advertising campaign, +while the people of the latter city assert that, as the +British Admiral Rainier, for whom the peak was +originally named, fought against the Americans in the +Revolution, he does not deserve to have his name tacked +onto an American mountain.</p> + +<p>For thirty miles or more the road from Tacoma +to Mount Rainier (for that is the name to which the +Federal Government has given its approval) strikes +across a wooded country as level as the top of a table, +until, reaching the base of the mountain, it sweeps<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_338"></a>[338]</span> +upward in long and graceful spirals which were laid +out by army engineers, for the region has been taken +over by the government under its new and admirable +policy of protecting the beauty-spots of the country +through the formation of national parks. Nowhere, +not even in the Alps, have I driven over a finer mountain +road, the gradients being so gradual and the curves +so skilfully designed that one scarcely appreciates, +upon reaching National Park Inn, in the heart of the +reservation, that he has climbed upward of five thousand +feet since leaving tide-water at Tacoma. We +spent the night at the Inn, a low-roofed, big-fireplaced +tavern which has an air of cosiness and comfort in +keeping with the surroundings. Everything about it +reminded us of hotels we knew in the Alpine valleys, +and when I drew up the shade in the morning the illusion +was complete, for the great peak, its snow-clad +flanks all sparkling in the morning sunlight, towered +above us, just as Mont Blanc towers above Chamonix, +dazzling, majestic, sublime. Leaving the Inn after an +early breakfast, we motored up the mountain road as +far as the snout of the great Nisqually Glacier, which +is as far as automobiles are permitted to go. Take my +word for it, this glacier—the largest on the continent +outside of Alaska—is one of the most worth-while +sights in all America. A river of ice, seven miles long +and half a mile wide, it coils down the slope of the +mountain like a mammoth boa-constrictor whose progress +has been barred in other directions by the encircling +wall of forest. We left the car at the glacier’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_339"></a>[339]</span> +snout, and, after an hour’s hard climbing over loose +rubble and slippery rock, succeeded, in defiance of +the danger signs, in reaching a flat shelf of rock from +which we could look directly down upon the ice torrent, +and there we ate the lunch that we had brought +with us to the accompaniment of the intermittent +crashes which marked the glacial torrent’s slow advance.</p> + +<p>We descended to the road in time to catch the +four-horse stage which runs twice daily from the Inn +to Paradise Valley, which the Lady insisted that we +must visit, “because,” she said, “there are snow-fields +and fields of wild flowers side by side.”</p> + +<p>“But you’ve seen much the same sort of thing +in Switzerland,” I objected. “Don’t you remember +that place above the Lake of Geneva, Territet, I think +it was, where people in furs were skating on one side +of the hotel and other people were having tea under +big red parasols on the other?”</p> + +<p>“I remember it, of course,” she answered, “but +that was in Switzerland and this is in my own country, +which makes all the difference in the world. Evidently +you have forgotten that German baron we met +at Grindelwald, who asked us if we didn’t think that the +view from Paradise Valley was finer than the one from +Andermatt, and we had to admit that we didn’t know +where Paradise Valley was. I’m not going to let that +sort of thing happen again. The next time I meet a +foreigner I’m not going to be embarrassed to death +by finding that he knows more about my own country +than I know myself.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_340"></a>[340]</span></p> + +<p>So she had her way and, leaving the car behind +us, we took the creaking stage up the steep and narrow +road to the valley, where we gathered armfuls of wild +flowers one minute and pelted each other with snowballs +the next, and peered through the telescope—at a +quarter a look—at the thirteen glaciers which radiate +from the mountain’s summit, and aroused perfectly +shameless appetites for supper, and slept as only healthily +tired people can sleep, and the next morning, half +intoxicated with the combination of blazing sunlight +and sparkling mountain air, we rattled down again to +the Inn and the waiting car.</p> + +<p>The run from Rainier National Park, through +Tacoma, to Seattle is as smooth and exhilarating as +sliding down the banisters of the front stairs. Auto-intoxicated +by the perfection of the roads, I stepped on +the accelerator and in obedience to the signal the car +suddenly leaped into its stride and hurtled down the +highway at express-train speed, while farmhouses and +barns and fields and orchards swept by us in an indistinguishable +blur. It was glorious while it lasted. But +out of the distance came racing toward us a big white +placard, “City Limits of Seattle,” and I slowed down +to a pace more conformable with the law and rolled +over the miles of trestles which span the swamps and +lowlands adjacent to Seattle as sedately as though a +motor-cycle policeman had his eye upon us. The +builders of Seattle must have been men of resource as +well as courage, for those portions of the city that have +not been reclaimed from the tide-lands have been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_341"></a>[341]</span> +blasted out of the rocky hillsides, so that the city gives +one the impression of clinging precariously to a slippery +mountain slope midway between sea and sky. +Instead of propitiating the hills, as is the case in Tacoma, +the streets go storming up them at angles which +give a motorist much the same sensation a rider has +when his horse rears and threatens to fall over backward. +Though Seattle is very big and very busy, with +teeming streets and huge department stores and miles +of harbour frontage and one of the tallest sky-scrapers +in existence and a park and boulevard system probably +unequalled anywhere, it gave me the impression of +being a little crude, a trifle <i>nouveau riche</i>, and not yet +entirely at home in its resplendent garments. Between +Seattle and Portland the most intense rivalry +exists, the two cities running almost neck-and-neck as +regards population, although this assertion will be +indignantly denied by the citizens of both of them. +Standing at one of the world’s crossways, the terminus +of several transcontinental railways and several trans-Pacific +steamship lines, with a superb harbour and the +recognised gateway to Alaska, Seattle has a tremendous +commercial advantage over her Oregonian rival, but +from a residential standpoint Portland, exquisitely +situated on the Willamette near its junction with the +Columbia, with its milder climate, its greater number of +theatres and hotels, and its older society, has rather a +more metropolitan atmosphere, a more assured air +than its northern neighbour.</p> + +<p>Seattle is the natural portal to the Puget Sound<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_342"></a>[342]</span> +country, that wilderness of mountains, glaciers, forests, +lakes, lagoons, islands, bays, and inlets which +makes the upper left-hand corner of the map of the +United States look like a ragged fringe. It is not an +easy country to describe. Southward from the Straits +of Juan de Fuca, an eighty-mile-long arm of the Pacific +penetrates the State of Washington—that is Puget +Sound. On its eastern shore are the cities of Seattle +and Tacoma, at the head of the sound is Olympia, the +capital of the State, and bordering the western shore +rise the splendid peaks of the unexplored Olympic +Range. If your imagination will stand the further +strain of picturing an archipelago four times the size +of the Thousand Islands, clothed with forests of cedar, +fir, and pine, and indented with countless bays, harbours, +coves, and inlets, dropped down in this body +of water, you will have a hazy conception of the island +labyrinth of Puget Sound, which is generally admitted, +I believe, to be the most beautiful salt-water estuary +in the world. Despite the narrowness of many of its +channels, the water is so deep and the banks so precipitous +that at many points a ship’s side would touch the +shore before its keel would touch the ground, which, +taken in conjunction with its innumerable excellent +harbours, makes it the most ideal cruising ground for +power-boats on our coasts.</p> + +<p>I can conceive, indeed, of no more enchanting +summer than one spent in a well-powered, well-stocked +motor-boat cruising in and about this archipelago, +loitering from island to island as the fancy seized one,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_343"></a>[343]</span> +dropping anchor in inviting harbours for a day or a +week, as one pleased. There are deer and bear in the +forests and trout in the rivers and salmon in the deeper +waters, and, if those did not provide sufficient recreation, +one could run across to the mainland and get the +stiffest kind of mountain climbing on Mount Olympus +or Mount Rainier. During the summer months scores +of small steamers, the “mosquito fleet,” ply out of +Seattle and Tacoma, hurrying backward and forward +between the city wharfs and the fishing villages, farming +communities, lumber camps, sawmills, and summer +resorts that are scattered everywhere about the archipelago’s +inland waterways, so that the camper on their +shores, seemingly far off in the wilds, need never be +without his daily paper, his fresh vegetables, or his +mail.</p> + +<p>Let us give ourselves the luxury of imagining—for, +to my way of thinking, there is about as much enjoyment +to be had in imagination as in realisation—that +we have a fortnight at our disposal on which no business +worries shall be permitted to intrude, that we have +the deck of a sturdy power-boat beneath our feet, and +that the placid, island-dotted waters of Puget Sound +lie before us, asparkle on a summer’s morning. Leaving +Seattle, seated on her stately hills, astern, and the +grim, grey fighting ships across the Sound at the Bremerton +Navy Yard abeam, we will push the wheel to +starboard and point the nose of our craft toward Admiralty +Inlet, the Straits of Juan de Fuca, and the +open sea. Our first port of call will be, I think, at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_344"></a>[344]</span> +Dungeness, whose waters are the habitat of those +Dungeness crabs which tickle the palates and deplete +the pocketbooks of gourmets from Vancouver to San +Diego. At the back of Dungeness is Sequim Prairie, +whose seventy odd thousand acres of irrigated lands +produce “those great big baked potatoes” which are so +prominent an item on dining-car menus in the Northwest. +It is nothing of a run from Dungeness to Port +Angeles, which is the most convenient gateway to the +unexplored Olympics. A score or so of miles southward +from Port Angeles by automobile, a portion of +which is by ferry across the beautiful mountain Lake +Crescent, and over a road which is a marvel of mountain +engineering, are the Sol Duc Hot Springs, whose +great modern hotel is in startling contrast to the savagery +of the region which surrounds it. Laying our +course from Port Angeles straight into the setting sun, +we coast along the rock-bound, heavily timbered shores +of the Olympic Peninsula to Neah Bay, where a crew +of Macah Indians will take us in one of their frail +canoes close around the harsh face of Cape Flattery, +which is the extreme northwest corner of the United +States. Westward of Cape Flattery we may not go, +for beyond it lies the open sea; but, steering eastward +again, we can nose about at will, loitering through the +romantic scenery of Deception Pass and Rosario Straits, +dropping in at Anacortes, whose canneries supply a +considerable portion of the world with salmon, and +coming thus to Friday Harbour, the county-seat of the +San Juan Islands, which, despite the Robinson Crusoe-ness<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_345"></a>[345]</span> +of its name, looks exactly like one of those quaint, +old-fashioned seaport towns which dot the coast of +Maine. The San Juan Islands, which are a less civilised +and more beautiful edition of the Thousand Islands of +the Saint Lawrence, like their counterparts on the other +side of the continent, lie midway between the American +and the Canadian shores. They were the scene of +numerous exciting incidents in the boundary dispute +of the late fifties, being for a number of years jointly +occupied by British and American troops; but, though +several crumbling British blockhouses still rise above +the island harbours, the nearest British soil is Vancouver +Island, across the Strait of Georgia. That the Stars +and Stripes, and not the Union Jack, fly to-day over +this picturesque archipelago is due, curiously enough, +to the Emperor Frederick, father of the present Kaiser, +who was asked to act as arbitrator between England +and the United States and decided in favour of the +latter.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus33" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus33.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>THE UNEXPLORED OLYMPICS.</p> + <p>A forest fire sweeping across the flanks of the Olympic range near Lake + Chelan. In the foreground is a sea of glacial ice.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Did you ever, by any chance, drop into a sporting-goods +store only to find yourself so bewildered by the +amazing number and variety of implements for sports +and recreations displayed upon its shelves that you +scarcely knew what to choose? Well, that is precisely +the sensation I had the first time I visited the Puget +Sound country. I felt as though I had been turned +loose in a gigantic sporting-goods store with so many +things to choose from that I couldn’t make up my mind +which to take first. And, mark you, everything is +comparatively close at hand. If a Londoner wants to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_346"></a>[346]</span> +get some mountain climbing he has to go to Chamonix +or Zermatt, which means a journey of at least two +days. If, getting his fill of precipices and glaciers and +crevasses, he wishes some bear shooting, he must turn +his face toward the Caucasus, to reach which will +require seven or eight days more. Should he suddenly +take it into his head that he would like some salmon +fishing he will have to spend ten days and several hundred +dollars in recrossing Europe to reach the fishing +streams of Norway—and then pay a good round sum +for the privilege of fishing in them when he gets there. +On the other hand, one can leave Tacoma by train or +motor-car and reach the slopes of the second highest +peak in the United States, a mountain higher and more +difficult of ascent than the Jungfrau, as quickly and as +easily as one can go from New York to Poughkeepsie. +From Seattle one can reach the country of the big +grizzlies as easily as a Boston sportsman can reach +the Maine woods. From Victoria, the island capital +of British Columbia, a gallon of gasoline and a road as +smooth as a billiard-table will take one to the banks +of a stream where the salmon are too large to be +weighed on pocket scales in less time than a Chicagoan +spends in getting out to the golf-links at Onwentsia.</p> + +<p>There is no other region of equal size, so far as I +am aware, which offers so many worth-while things in +a superlative degree for red-blooded people to do. +Where else, pray, can you climb a mountain which is +higher than any peak in Europe save one (Mount +Hooker, in British Columbia, is only eighty feet lower<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_347"></a>[347]</span> +than Mont Blanc, the monarch of the Alps, while Mount +Rainier, which, as I have remarked, is almost in Tacoma’s +front yard, is nearly a thousand feet higher than +the Jungfrau); where else can you look along your +rifle barrel at such big game as grizzly, elk, panther, +mountain-sheep, and even the spotted bear, the rarest +of all North American big game; where else can you +have your fly-rod bent like a sapling in a storm and +hear your reel whir like a sawmill by a sixty-pound +salmon or a six-pound trout; where else can you cruise, +for weeks on end, amid the islands of an archipelago +more beautiful than those of Georgian Bay and more +numerous than those of the Ægean, without the necessity +of ever dropping anchor twice in the same harbour; +where else can you canoe by day and camp by +night along rivers which have their sources on the roof +of a continent and, after taking their course through a +thousand miles of wilderness, empty into the greatest +of the oceans; where else can you throw open the +throttle of your motor on a macadamised highway +which, in another year or two, will stretch its length +across twenty-five degrees of latitude, linking Mexico +with Alaska? Where else can you find such amusements +as these, I ask? Answer me that.</p> + +<p class="tb">Were it not for the complicated customs formalities +that a motorist has, perforce, to go through at the +Canadian border, one could, by getting an early start +and not lingering over his lunch, make the one-hundred-and-seventy-mile +journey from Seattle to Vancouver<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_348"></a>[348]</span> +between dawn and dark of the same day. But the red +tape which the American officials insist upon unwinding +before you can leave the land of the beef trust +and the home of the Pullman porter and the equal +amount of red tape which the Canadian officials wind +up before you are permitted to enter the dominions +of his gracious Majesty King George make a one-day +trip out of the question; so we did it comfortably +in two and spent the intervening night in the seaport +town of Bellingham. It’s a great place for canneries, +is Bellingham; indeed, I should think that the residents +would be ashamed to look a salmon in the face. +Twenty miles farther on, at a hamlet called Blaine, we +were greeted by a huge sign whose staring letters +read: “International Boundary.” On one side the +Stars and Stripes floated over an eight-by-ten shanty; +on the other side of this imaginary but significant line +the Union Jack flapped in the breeze over a shanty a +trifle larger. They are inquisitive, those British customs +officials, and when they had finished with our +car there wasn’t much they didn’t know about it. +They inspected it as thoroughly as a Kaffir is inspected +when he knocks off work in a South African diamond +mine. Before entering Canada it is wise to obtain +from the American authorities at the border a certificate +containing a description of your car and all that it +contains; otherwise you will be subjected to innumerable +formalities upon entering the country again, while +the Canadian laws require that a tourist desiring to +remain more than eight days in the Dominion must<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_349"></a>[349]</span> +provide a bond to cover the value of his car and make +in addition a deposit of twenty-five dollars, both of +which will be returned to him when he leaves the country. +There is a grocer in Blaine—I forget his name, +but he is a most obliging fellow—who makes a specialty +of providing bonds for motorists, and by going to +him we saved ourselves much trouble. It was all very +informal. He simply called up the Canadian customs +house on the phone and said: “Say, Bill, there’s some +folks here that’s motorin’ into Canada. I ain’t got +time to make out a bond just now, ’cause there’s an +old lady here waitin’ to buy some potatoes, but you +just let ’em skip through and I’ll fix it up the next time +I see you.” Careless and informal, just like that. So +all they did was to take the pedigree of the car for four +generations, note the numbers of the spare tires, inventory +the extra parts, go through our belongings +with a dandruff comb, inquire where I was born, what +the E. in my name stood for, and was I unfortunate +enough to have to pay taxes; and, after presenting me +with a list of the pains and penalties which I would +incur if I broke any of his Majesty’s orders in council, +permitted us to enter the territory of the Dominion.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus34" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus34.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>WHERE THE SALMON COME FROM.</p> + <p>“It’s a great place for canneries, is Bellingham; I should think the + residents would be ashamed to look a salmon in the face.”</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>I hope, for the sake of those who follow in our tire +tracks, that the fifty miles of highway between Blaine +and Vancouver has been materially improved since we +went over it. Doubtless with the best intentions in +the world, they had constructed a “crowned” road, +which, as its name implies, is one that is rounded upward +in the middle so as to drain the more readily;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_350"></a>[350]</span> +but, as a result of the rains, the sloping sides were so +greasy that it was only with considerable difficulty +that I kept the car from sliding into the ditch. There +is one thing that the motorist must bear constantly in +mind from the moment his front tires roll across the +Canadian border, and that is <i>keep to the left</i>. Barring +New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, British Columbia +is the only Canadian province which retains the English +system of turning to the left and passing to the +right, and it takes an American some time to become +habituated to it.</p> + +<p>After seemingly endless miles of slippery going +through dripping woods, we entered the outskirts of +New Westminster, a prosperous seaport near the mouth +of the Fraser and the oldest place in this region, as age +is counted in western Canada. A splendid boulevard, +twenty-five miles long, connects New Westminster with +Vancouver, and the car fled along it as swiftly as an +aeroplane and as silently as a ghost. The virgin forest +dwindled and ran out in recently made clearings, where +gangs of men were still at work dynamiting and burning +the stumps; and on the cleared land neat cottages +of mushroom growth appeared, and these changed +gradually to two-storied, frame houses, and these again +to the increasingly ornate mansions of the well-to-do, +the wealthy, and the <i>rich</i>. Through the murk beyond +them the white sky-scrapers of Vancouver shot +skyward—memorials to the men who have roped and +tied and tamed a savage land.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_351"></a>[351]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="XIII">XIII<br> +<span class="smaller">CLINCHING THE RIVETS OF EMPIRE</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_352"></a>[352]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Up along the hostile mountains where the hair-poised snowslide shivers—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Down and through the big fat marshes that the virgin ore bed stains,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Till I heard the mile-wide muttering of unimagined rivers</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And beyond the nameless timber saw illimitable plains.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Plotted sites of future cities, traced the easy grades between ’em;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Watched unharnessed rapids wasting fifty thousand head an hour;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Counted leagues of water frontage through the axe-ripe woods that screen ’em—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Saw the plant to feed a people—up and waiting for the power!”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_353"></a>[353]</span></p> + +<h3>XIII<br> +<span class="smaller">CLINCHING THE RIVETS OF EMPIRE</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>Darkness had fallen on the Oregonian forest +when our forward tire exploded with a report +which sounded in that eerie stillness like a bursting +shell. It was not a reassuring place to have a blowout—in +the heart of a forest as large as many a European +kingdom, with the nearest settlement half a hundred +miles away and the nearest apology for a hotel +as many more. Between the cathedral-like columns of +the pines, however, I glimpsed a signal of human +presence in the twinkling of a fire, and toward it I +made my way through underbrush and over fallen +trunks, while my chauffeur, blaspheming under his +breath, busied himself at the maddening task of fitting +on another tire in the darkness.</p> + +<p>I shall not soon forget the incongruity of the scene +which greeted me as I halted on the edge of a little +clearing fitfully illuminated by a roaring camp-fire. +Within the circle of warmth—for the summer nights +are chilly in the north country—stood a canvas-topped +wagon which appeared to be a half-brother to a prairie-schooner, +an uncle to an army ambulance, and a cousin +to a moving van. Its side curtains had been let down, +so that it formed a sort of tent on wheels, and seated<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_354"></a>[354]</span> +beside it on an upended soap box a plump little woman +in a calico dress was preparing six small youngsters +for bed as unconcernedly as though she were in a New +England farmhouse, with the neighbours’ lights twinkling +through the trees, instead of in the middle of a +primeval wilderness, a long day’s journey from anywhere. +The horses had been outspanned, as they say +in South Africa, and were placidly exploring the recesses +of their nose-bags for the last stray grams of +oats. A lank, stoop-shouldered, sinewy-framed man, +who had been squatting beside the fire watching the +slow progress of a pot of coffee, slowly rose to his feet +on my approach and slouched forward with outstretched +hand. He radiated good nature and hospitality and an +air of easy-going efficiency, and from the first I liked +him.</p> + +<p>“Howdy, friend,” he drawled, with the unmistakable +nasal twang of the Middle West. “I reckon +you’ve had a little bad luck with your machine, ain’t +you? We heard you a-comin’ chug-chuggin’ through +the woods, hell bent for election, an’ all to once there +was a noise ’s if some one had pulled the trigger of +a shotgun. ‘There,’ says I to Arethusa, ‘some pore +autermobile feller’s limpin’ ’round in the darkness on +three legs,’ says I, ‘an’ as soon ’s I get this coffee to +boilin’ I reckon I’ll stroll over with a lantern an’ see +if I can’t give him some help.’”</p> + +<p>“Just as much obliged,” said I, “but my man has +the tire pretty well on by now. But we could do with +a cup or so of that coffee if you’ve some to spare.”</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus35" style="max-width: 28.125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus35.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>This settler’s nearest neighbour was fifty miles away—</p> + <p>And he was a Swede farmer with a Siwash wife.</p> + <p>OUTPOSTS OF CIVILISATION.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_355"></a>[355]</span></p> + +<p>“That’s what coffee’s for, friend—to drink,” he +said cordially, reaching for a tin cup. “Where’ve you +come from?” he added with polite curiosity.</p> + +<p>“From the Mexican border,” said I, with, I suspect, +a trace of self-satisfaction in my voice, for fifteen +hundred miles of desert, forest, and mountains lay +behind us. “And you?” I asked in turn.</p> + +<p>“Us?” he answered. “Oh, we’ve come from Kansas.” +(He said it as unconcernedly as a New Yorker +might mention that he had just run over to Philadelphia +for a day.) “Left Emporia thirteen weeks ago +come Thursday and have averaged nigh on twenty-five +miles a day ever since. An’ the horses ain’t in bad +condition, neither.”</p> + +<p>“And where, in the name of Heaven,” I exclaimed, +“are you going?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” was the reply, “we’re headed for British +Columbia, but I reckon we’ll have to winter somewheres +in Washington and push on across the line in +the spring. You see, friend,” he continued, in his +placid, easy-going manner, in reply to my rapid fire +of inquiries, “it was this way. I was in the furniture +business back in Kansas, furniture an’ undertakin’, +but I didn’t much care for the business ’cause it kept +me indoors so much, my folks always havin’ been +farmers and such like. Well, one day a while back, I +picked up one of them folders sent out by the Canadian +Gov’ment, tellin’ ’bout the rich resources up in +British Columbia, an’ how land was to be had for +the askin’. So that night when I went home I says to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_356"></a>[356]</span> +Arethusa: ‘What’d you think of sellin’ out an’ packin’ +up and goin’ up British Columbia way, an’ gettin’ a +farm where we can live out o’ doors an’ make a decent +livin’?’ ‘Sure,’ says she, ‘I’d like it fine. An’ it’ll +be great for the kids.’ ‘All right,’ says I,’ it’s all decided. +I’ll build a body for the delivery wagon that +we can sleep in, an’ we’ll take Peter an’ Repeater, the +delivery team, an’ it won’t take us more than six or +eight months to make the trip if we keep movin’.’ +You see, friend,” he added, “my paw moved out to +Kansas when there warn’t nothin’ there but Indians +an’ sage-brush, an’ hers did, too, so I reckon this +movin’ on to new places is sort of in the blood.”</p> + +<p>“But why British Columbia?” I queried. “Why +Canada at all? What’s the reason that you, an American, +don’t remain in the United States?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t know exactly, friend,” he answered, +a little shamefacedly, I thought, “unless it’s because +it’s a newer country up there an’ a man has a better +chance. What with the Swedes an’ the Germans an’ +the Eyetalians, this country’s gettin’ pretty well settled +an’ there ain’t the chances in it there was once; +but up British Columbia way it’s still a frontier country, +they tell me, an’ a man who’s willin’ to buckle +down an’ work can make a home an’ a good livin’ +quicker’n anywhere else, I guess. It’s fine land up in +the middle o’ Vancouver Island, I hear, an’ in the Cariboo +country, too, an’ they want settlers so darn bad +that they’ll give you a farm for nothin’. An’ it’s a +pretty good country for a man to live in, too. Here in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_357"></a>[357]</span> +the United States we do a heap o’ talkin’ ’bout our laws, +but up in Canada they don’t talk about ’em at all—they +just go right ahead an’ enforce ’em. I may be in +wrong, of course, but from all I hear it’s goin’ to be a +great country up there one of these days, when they +get the railroads through, an’ me an’ Arethusa sorta +got the notion in our heads that we’d like to be pioneers, +like our paws were, an’ get in an’ help build the country, +an’ let our kids grow up with it. You’ve got to +be startin’, eh? Won’t you have another cup o’ coffee +before you go? Well, friend, I’m mighty glad to’ve +met you. Good luck to you.”</p> + +<p>“Good luck to <i>you</i>,” said I.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus36" style="max-width: 50em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus36.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><table><tr> + <td class="td2"><p>“Chopping a path to To-morrow—” Frontiersmen clearing + a town site in the forests of British Columbia.</p></td> + <td class="td2"><p>Law and order in the back country: the sheriff of the + Cariboo—the only law-officer for three hundred miles.</p></td> + </tr></table> + <p>BREAKING THE WILDERNESS.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p class="tb">Though I didn’t appreciate it at the time, my +acquaintance of the forest was a soldier in an army of +invasion. This army had come from the south quietly, +unostentatiously, without blare of bugle or beat of +drum, its weapons the plough and the reaper, the hoe +and the spade, its object the conquest, not of a people +but of a wilderness. Have you any conception, I +wonder, of the astounding proportions which this agricultural +invasion of Canada has assumed? Did you +know that last year upward of one hundred thousand +Americans crossed the border to take up farms and +carve out fortunes for themselves under another flag? +These settlers who are trekking northward by rail and +road are the very pick of the farming communities of +our Middle West. Besides being men of splendid +character and fine physique, and of a rugged honesty<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_358"></a>[358]</span> +that is characteristic of those closely associated with +the soil, they take with them a substantial amount of +capital—probably a thousand dollars at least, on an +average, either in cash, stock, or household goods. +Moreover, they bring what is most valuable of all—experience. +Coming from a region where the agricultural +conditions are similar to those prevailing in +the Canadian West, they quickly adapt themselves to +the new life. Unlike the settlers from the mother country +and from the Continent, to whom everything is +strange and new, and who consequently require some +time to adjust themselves to the changed conditions, +the American wastes not a moment in contemplation +but rolls up his sleeves, spits on his hands, and goes +hammer and tongs at the task of making a farm and +building a home. He is efficient, energetic, industrious, +businesslike, adaptable, and quite frankly admits that +he has come to the country because it offers him better +prospects. So, though he may not sing “God Save the +King” with the fervour of a newly arrived Briton, he is +none the less valuable to the land of his adoption.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus37" style="max-width: 29.6875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus37.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><table><tr> + <td class="td2"><p>A heavy load but well packed.</p></td> + <td class="td2"><p>Even the dogs have to carry their share.</p></td> + </tr><tr> + <td colspan="2"><p>A heavy load poorly packed.</p></td> + </tr></table> + <p>PACK-HORSES AND A PACK-DOG.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Ask your average well-informed American what +he knows about British Columbia, and it is dollars to +doughnuts that he will remark rather dubiously: “Oh, +yes, that’s the place where the tinned salmon comes +from, isn’t it?” Take yourself, for example. Did you +happen to be aware that, though it has barely as many +inhabitants as Newark, N. J., its area is equal to that +of California, Oregon, and Washington put together, +with Indiana thrown in to make good measure? Or,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_359"></a>[359]</span> +if the comparison is more graphic, that it is larger than +the combined areas of Italy, Switzerland, and France? +Westernmost of the eleven provinces comprising the +Dominion, it is bounded on the south by the orchards +of Washington and the mines of Idaho; eastward it +ends where the cattle-ranges of Alberta begin; to its +north are the fur-bearing Mackenzie Territories and +the gold-fields of the Yukon; westward it is bordered +by the heaving Pacific and that narrow strip of ragged +coast which forms the panhandle of Alaska. Though +clinging to its edges are a score of towns and two great +cities; though a transcontinental railway (the only one +on the continent, by the way, which runs from tide-water +to tide-water under the same management and +the same name) hugs the province’s southern border +and another is cutting it through the middle; its vast +hinterland, larger than the two Scandinavian kingdoms, +with its network of unnamed rivers and its unguessed-at +wealth in forests, fish, furs, and minerals, contains +thousands upon thousands of square miles which have +never felt the pressure of a white man’s foot or echoed +to a white man’s voice. Do you realise that, should you +turn your horse’s head northwestward from the Kootenai, +on the Idaho border, you would have to ride as far +as from Lake Superior to the Gulf of Mexico before you +could unsaddle beneath the Stars and Stripes at White +Pass, on the frontier of Alaska? Did you know that +the province contains the greatest compact area of +merchantable timber in North America, its forests +being greater in extent than those of the New England<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_360"></a>[360]</span> +States, New York, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Wisconsin, +Minnesota, and the Blue Ridge combined? I have +heard naval experts and railway presidents and mining +men talk ponderously of a future shortage in the coal +supply—but they need not worry, for British Columbia’s +coal measures are estimated to contain forty billion +tons of bituminous and sixty billion tons of anthracite +(100,000,000,000, tons in all, if so endless a caravan +of ciphers means anything to you)—enough to run the +engines of the world until Gabriel’s trumpet sounds +“Cease working.” The output of its salmon canneries +will provide those who order fish on Fridays with most +excellent and inexpensive eating until the crack of +doom. Its untouched deposits of magnetite and hematite +are so extensive that they bid fair to make the +ironmasters of Pittsburg break that commandment (I +forget which one it is) which says: “Thou shalt not +covet thy neighbour’s goods.” The province has +enough pulpwood to supply the Hearst and Harmsworth +presses with paper until the last “extra special +edition” is issued on the morning of judgment day. +The recently discovered petroleum deposits have proved +so large that they promise to materially reduce the +income of the lean old gentleman who plays golf on +the Pocantico Hills. The area of agricultural and +fruit lands in the province is estimated at sixty million +acres, of which less than one tenth has been taken up, +much less put under cultivation. And scattered through +the length and breadth of this great Cave-of-Al-ed-Din-like +territory is a total population of less than four<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_361"></a>[361]</span> +hundred thousand souls. Everything considered, it +has, I suppose, greater natural resources than any area +of the same size on the globe. So I don’t see how a +young man with courage, energy, ambition, a little +capital, and a speaking acquaintance with hard work +could do better than to drop into the nearest railway +ticket office and say to the clerk behind the counter: +“A ticket to British Columbia—and step lively, if you +please. I want to get there before it is too late to be a +pioneer.”</p> + +<p>Situated in the same latitude as the British Isles, +sheltered from the winter blizzards of the prairie provinces +by the high wall of the Rocky Mountains, its +long western coast washed by the warm waves of the +Japan current, its air tinctured with the balsamic +fragrance of millions of acres of hemlock, spruce, and +pine, British Columbia’s climate is, to use the phraseology +of the real-estate boosters, “highly salubrious”; +although, to be strictly truthful, I am compelled to add +that it is extremely wet during a considerable portion +of the year. But it is a misty, drizzly sort of rain to +which no one pays the slightest attention. You will +see ladies without umbrellas stop to chat on the streets, +and men lounging and laughing in front of the clubs +and hotels in a rain which would make a Chicagoan +hail a taxicab and a Bostonian turn up his collar and +seek the subway. When you speak about it they laugh +good-naturedly and say in a surprised sort of way: +“Why, is it raining? By Jove, it is a trifle misty, isn’t +it? Really, you know, I hadn’t noticed it at all.”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_362"></a>[362]</span> +Then they will go on to tell you that it is the moistness +of the climate which gives British Columbia its +beautiful women and its beautiful flowers. And I can, +and gladly do, vouch for the beauty of them both. +They—particularly the women—are worth going a +long way to see.</p> + +<p>You mustn’t confuse British Columbia, you understand, +with the flat, monotonous, grain-growing provinces +which lie on the other side of the Rockies. It +isn’t that sort of a country at all. It is too mountainous, +too ravined, with many impassable chasms and +nigh-impenetrable forests. Its plateaus are eroded by +lake and river into gorges which are younger sisters of +the Grand Cañon of the Colorado. From a little distance +the mountain slopes look as though they had +been neatly upholstered in the green plush to which +the builders of Pullman cars are so partial, but, upon +closer inspection, the green covering resolves itself into +dense forests of spruce and pine. Thousands and thousands +of brooks empty into the creeks and hundreds +of creeks empty into the big rivers, and these mighty +waterways, the Fraser, the Kootenai, the Skeena, the +Columbia, go roaring and booming seaward through +their rock-walled channels, wasting a million head of +power an hour. Nowhere, that I can recall, are so +many picturesque and interesting scenes combined +with such sensational and impressive scenery as along +the cañon of the Lower Fraser. Here the mountains +of the Coast Range rise to a height of nearly two miles +above the surface of the swirling, angry river, the walls<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_363"></a>[363]</span> +of the cañon being so precipitous and smooth that one +marvels at the daring and ingenuity of the men who +built a railway there. As the cañon widens, the traveller +catches fleeting glimpses of Chinamen washing for gold +on the river bars; of bearded, booted lumberjacks +guiding with their spike-shod poles the course of mile-long +log rafts; of Siwash Indians, standing with poised +salmon-spears on the rocks above the stream, like +statues cast in bronze. Then the outposts of civilisation +begin to appear in the form of hillsides which have +been cleared and set out to fruit-trees, of Japanese +truck-gardens, every foot of which is tended by the +little yellow men with almost pathetic care, of sawmills, +and salmon canneries; and so through a region where +neat hamlets alternate with stretches of primeval forest, +until in the distance, looming above the smoke +pall, the sky-scrapers of Vancouver appear.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus38" style="max-width: 28.125em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus38.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>The Upper Fraser: “Streams of threaded + quicksilver hasten through the valleys as though anxious to escape from + the solitude that reigns.”</p> + <p>“On the flanks of the ridges, massed in their black battalions, stand + the bleak, barbarian pines.”</p> + <p>IN THE GREAT, STILL LAND.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>The chief cities of the province are Vancouver, the +commercial capital and a port and railway terminus +of great industrial importance, and Victoria, the seat of +government and the centre of provincial society. There +are also several smaller cities: New Westminster, at the +mouth of the Fraser and so close to Vancouver that +it is almost impossible for the stranger to determine +where the one ends and the other begins; Nanaimo, +a coal-mining town of considerable importance on +the eastern shore of Vancouver Island, and Alberni, +famous for its salmon fisheries, at the head of an arm +of the sea extending inland from the western coast; +Nelson, the <i>chef-lieu</i> of the prosperous fruit-growing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_364"></a>[364]</span> +district of the Kootenai, in the extreme southeastern +corner of the province; Bella Coola, on a fiord at the +mouth of the Bella Coola River; Ashcroft, the gateway +to the hinterland, on the main line of the Canadian +Pacific Railway; Fort George, at the junction of the +Fraser and Nechako Rivers; and Prince Rupert, the +remarkable mushroom city which the Grand Trunk +Pacific Railway has built, from the ground up, on the +coast of British Columbia, forty miles south of the +Alaskan border, as the Pacific Coast terminus for the +transcontinental system which has recently been completed.</p> + +<p>Between Vancouver and Victoria the most intense +rivalry exists. They are as jealous of each other as +two prima donnas singing in the same opera. Vancouver +is a great and prosperous city, with broad and +teeming streets, clanging street-cars, rumbling traffic, +belching factory chimneys, towering office-buildings, +extensive railroad yards, excellent pavements, and attractive +residential suburbs. Of course there is nothing +very startling in all this, were it not for the fact that +it is all new—twenty years ago there was no such place +on the map. It is a busy, bustling place, where every +one seems too much occupied in making fortunes overnight +to have much time to spare for social amenities. +There was a land boom on the last time I was in +Vancouver—in fact, I gathered that it was a perennial +condition—and prices were being asked (and paid!) +for town lots not yet cleared of forest which would have +made an American real-estate agent admit quite frankly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_365"></a>[365]</span> +that he had not progressed beyond the kindergarten +stage of the game. I am perfectly serious in saying +that within the city limits of Vancouver lots are being +sold which are still covered with virgin forest. Within +less than two miles of the city hall you can see gangs +of men clearing residential sites by chopping down the +primeval forest with which they are covered and blowing +out and burning the stumps. This real-estate boom, +with its consequent inflation of land values, has had +a bad effect on the prosperity of Vancouver, however, +for many ordinarily conservative business men, dazzled +by visions of sudden wealth, have gone land mad; +money is difficult to get, for Canadian banks are prohibited +by law from loaning on real estate; and, like +so many other towns which have been stimulated by +artificial means, Vancouver is already beginning to +show the effects of the inevitable reaction.</p> + +<p>Victoria, unlike Vancouver, is old, as oldness +counts in the Dominion. It was the seat of government +when Vancouver was part jungle and part beach. It +is the residential city of western Canada, and is much +in vogue as a place of permanent abode for those who +in any of the nearer provinces “have made their pile,” +for well-to-do men with marriageable daughters and +socially ambitious wives, and for military and naval +officers who have retired and wish to get as much as +possible out of their limited incomes. Victoria is as +essentially English as Vancouver is American. It is, +indeed, a bit of England set down in this remote corner +of the empire. It has stately government buildings,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_366"></a>[366]</span> +broad, tree-shaded streets, endless rows of the beam-and-plaster +villas which one sees in every London +suburb, and one of the most beautiful parks I have +ever seen. Its people spend much of their time on the +tennis-courts, cricket-fields, and golf-links, and are careful +not to let business interfere with pleasure. That +is the reason, no doubt, why in business Vancouver +has swept by Victoria as an automobile sweeps by a +horse and buggy. Vancouver might aptly be compared +to a hustling, energetic business man who never +lets slip an opportunity to make a dollar and who is +always on the job. Victoria, on the contrary, is a +quietly prosperous, rather sportily inclined old gentleman +who is fond of good living and believes that no +time is wasted that is devoted to sport. Each town has +a whole-souled contempt for the other. The Victorian +takes you aside and says: “Oh, yes, Vancouver is progressing +quite rapidly, I hear, although, fact is, the +subject really doesn’t interest me. The people are so +impossible, you know. Why, would you believe it, +my dear fellow, most of them came there without a +dollar to their names—fact, I assure you. Now they’re +all bally millionaires. Positively vulgar, I call it. +Very worthy folk, no doubt, but scarcely in our class. +Look here, let’s have a drink and then motor out and +have a round of golf. What say, old chap? Right-o!”</p> + +<p>The Vancouver man shoves his derby on the back +of his head, sticks a thumb in the armhole of his waistcoat, +and with the other hand gives you a resounding +whack on the shoulder. “Victoria? Pshaw, no one<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_367"></a>[367]</span> +takes Victoria seriously. Nice little place to send the +madam and the kids for the summer. But it’s asleep—nothing +doing—no business. Why, say, friend, do you +know what they do down there? <i>They drink afternoon +tea!</i> Believe me, Vancouver is the only real, growing, +progressive, wide-awake, up-and-doing burg this side +of Broadway. Say, have you got an hour to spare? +Then just jump into my car here and I’ll run you out +and show you a piece of property that you can make a +fortune on if you buy it quick. Yes, sirree, you can +get rich quick, all right all right, if you invest your +money in Vancouver.”</p> + +<p>There are not more than ten harbours in the world, +certainly not more than a dozen at the most, that have +a right to be spoken of in the same breath with Victoria’s +landlocked port. Picking her cautious way +through the long, narrow, curving entrance that makes +the harbour of Victoria resemble a chemist’s retort, +our vessel swept ahead with stately deliberation, while +we leaned over the rail in the crispness of the early +morning and watched the scenes that accommodatingly +spread themselves before us. Slender, white-hulled +pleasure yachts, dainty as a débutante; impertinent, +omnipresent launches, poking their inquisitive noses +everywhere and escaping disaster by the thickness of +their paint; greasy, hard-working tugboats, panting +like an expressman who has carried your trunk upstairs; +whalers outfitting for the Arctic—you can tell +’em by the scarlet lookout’s barrel lashed to the fore +masthead; rusty freighters from Sitka, Callao, Singapore,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_368"></a>[368]</span> +Heaven knows where; Japanese fishing-boats +with tattered, weather-beaten sails such as the artists +love to paint; Siwash canoes manned by squat, shock-headed +descendants of the first inhabitants; huge +twin-funnelled Canadian Pacific liners outward bound +for Yokohama or homeward bound for Vancouver, for +Victoria boasts of being “the first and last port of call”—take +my word for it, it’s a sight worth seeing, is +Victoria Harbour on a sunny morning. We forged +ahead at half speed and the city crept nearer and +nearer, until we could make out the line of four-horsed +brakes waiting to rattle those tourists whose time was +limited to the customary “points of interest,” and the +crowd of loungers along the quay, and the constables +with their helmet straps under their lower lips and +blue-and-white-striped bands on their sleeves, exactly +like their fellows in Oxford Circus and Piccadilly. At +the right the imposing stone façade of the Parliament +buildings rose from an expanse of vivid lawn—as a +result of the combined warmth and moisture the vegetation +of Victoria is unsurpassed in the temperate +zone; at the left the business portion of the city +stretched away in stolid and uncompromising brick +and stone; squarely ahead of us loomed the great +bulk of the Empress Hotel. We would have run into +it had we kept straight on, but of course we didn’t, +for the captain yanked a lever on the bridge and bells +jangled noisily in the engine room, and the vessel, +turning ever so deliberately, poked her prow into the +berth that awaited it like a horse entering its accustomed +stall.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_369"></a>[369]</span></p> + +<p>What I like about Victoria is that it is so blamed +British. Unless you are observing enough to notice +that the date-lines of the London papers in the Union +Club are quite a fortnight old, you would never dream +that you were upward of six thousand miles from Trafalgar +Square and barely sixty from the totem-pole in +Seattle. If you still have any lingering doubts as to +the atmosphere of the place being completely and unreservedly +British, they will promptly be dispelled if +you will drop into the lobby (they call it lounge) of +the Empress Hotel any afternoon at four o’clock and +see the knickerbockered sons of Albion engaged in the +national diversion of drinking tea. When an American +is caught drinking afternoon tea he assumes an +I-give-you-my-word-I-never-did-this-before-but-the-ladies-dragged-me-into-it +air, but your Britisher does it with +all the matter-of-courseness with which a New Yorker +orders his pre-dinner cocktail. One of the earliest +impressions one gets in Victoria is that all the inhabitants +are suffering from extraordinarily hard colds—brought +on, you suppose, by the dampness of the climate—but +after a little it dawns on you that they are +merely employing the broad A that they brought with +them from the old country, along with their monocles +and their beautifully cut riding clothes. In Vancouver, +on the contrary, you never hear the broad A used at +all unless by a new arrival with the brand of Bond +Street fresh upon him. They have no time for it. +They are too busy making money. The Victorians, on +the other hand, never lie awake nights fretting about +the filthy lucre. <i>They</i> are too busy having a good time.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_370"></a>[370]</span> +They have enough money to be comfortable, and that +seems to be all they want. That’s the plan on which +the place is run—comfort and pleasure. Most of the +Victorians, so I was told, are people with beer pocketbooks +and champagne thirsts. For a man with a +modest income and an unquenchable thirst for sport +Victoria is the best place of residence I know. In +most places it needs a rich man’s income to lead the +sporting life, for game-preserves and salmon rivers +and polo ponies run into a lot of money, but in Victoria +almost any one can be a sport, if not a sportsman, +for you can pick up a pony that can be broken to polo +for sixty or seventy dollars and a few miles back of +the city lies one of the greatest fishing and shooting +regions in the world. The last time I was in Victoria +I found all the banks and business houses closed, and +flags were flying from every public building, and a +procession, headed by mounted police and a band, +was coming down the street. “What’s going on?” I +inquired of a deeply interested bystander. “Is it the +King’s birthday or is there royalty in town, or what?” +“Not on your life!” he answered witheringly. “It’s +the prime minister on his way to open the baseball +season.”</p> + +<p>If you want to go a-motoring in a foreign country +without the expense and trouble of an ocean voyage, +I doubt if you could do better than to put your car on +a steamer at Seattle or Vancouver, with “Victoria” +pencilled on the bill of lading. Take my word for it, +you will find Vancouver Island as foreign (perhaps I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_371"></a>[371]</span> +should say as un-American) as England; in many respects +it is more English than England itself. Though +the aggregate length of the insular highways is not very +great, for civilisation has as yet but nibbled at the +island’s edges, the roads that have been built are unsurpassed +anywhere. If roads are judged not only by +their smoothness but by the scenery through which +they pass, then the highways of Vancouver Island are +in a class by themselves. They are as smooth as the +arguments of an automobile salesman; their grades are +as easy as the path to shame; they are bordered by +scenery as alluring as Scherezade. The spinal column +of Vancouver’s highway system is the splendid Island +Highway, which, after leaving Victoria, parallels the +east coast, running through Cowichan, Chemainus, +Ladysmith, Nanaimo, and Wellington, to Nanoose +Bay. Here the road divides, one fork continuing up +the coast to Campbell River, which is the northernmost +point that can be reached by road, while the other +fork swings inland, skirting the shores of Cameron +Lake and through Alberni, at the head of Barclay +Sound, to Great Central Lake, which, as its name indicates, +is in the very heart of the island, upward of a hundred +and fifty miles from Victoria as the motor goes. +The first twenty miles of the Island Highway are known +as the Malahat Drive, the road here climbing over a +mountain range of considerable height by means of +a splendidly surfaced but none too wide shelf, with +many uncomfortably sharp turns, cut in the rocky +face of the cliff. This shelf gradually ascends until<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_372"></a>[372]</span> +the giant firs in the gloomy gorge below look no larger +than hedge-plants, and the waters of the sound, with +its wild and wooded shores, like a miniature lakelet in +a garden. The Malahat is a safe enough road if you +drive with caution. But it is no place for joy riding. +It is too narrow, in the first place, and the turns are +too sharp, and it is such a fearfully long way to the +bottom that they would have to gather up your remains +with a shovel, which is messy and inconvenient.</p> + +<p>Throughout our tour on Vancouver Island we +were impressed with the universal politeness and good +nature of the people we met, particularly in the back +country, and by the courteous wording of the signs +along the highways. The highway signs in the United +States have a habit of shaking a fist in your face, metaphorically +speaking, and shouting at you: “Go any +faster if you dare!” But in Vancouver they assume +that you are a gentleman and address you as such. +Instead of curtly ordering you to “Go slow” without +condescending to give any reason, they erect a sign +like this: “Schoolhouse ahead. Please look out for +the children,” and, a little way beyond, another +which says, “Thank you”—a little courtesy which +costs nothing except a few extra strokes of the brush +and leaves you permeated with a glow of good feeling.</p> + +<p>When we reached Nanaimo, which is a coal-mining +centre of considerable importance, we found one of +the periodic strikes which serve to relieve the tedium +of life in the drab little colliery town in progress and a +militia regiment of Highlanders encamped in its streets.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_373"></a>[373]</span> +When we speak of militia in the United States we +usually think of slouch-hatted youths in rather slovenly +uniforms of yellow khaki, who meet every Wednesday +night for drill at the local armoury, spend ten days in +an instruction camp each summer, and parade down +the main streets of their respective towns on Decoration +Day and the Fourth of July. But these Canadian +militiamen were something quite different. I don’t +suppose that they are a whit more efficient when it +comes to the business of slaughter than their cousins +south of the border, but they are certainly a lot more +picturesque. But I ask you now, candidly, can you +imagine several hundred young Americans dressed in +plaid kilts and plaid stockings, with an interim of bare +knees, jackets chopped off at the waist-line, and dinky +little caps with ribbons hanging down behind keeping +the upper hand in a strike-ridden American city? +I can’t. These young men belonged, so I was told, to +a “Highland” regiment, though after talking with a +few of them I gathered that their acquaintance with +the Highlands consisted in having occupied seats in +the upper gallery at a performance by Harry Lauder. +But, kilts or no kilts, there was no doubt that they +were running the show in Nanaimo and, from all indications, +running it very well.</p> + +<p>Decidedly the most worth-while thing on Vancouver +Island, either from the view-point of an artist +or a motorist, is that portion of the Island Highway +between Nanoose Bay, on the Straits of Georgia, and +Alberni, at the head of Barclay Sound. When I first<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_374"></a>[374]</span> +traversed it in the golden radiance of an October day, +I thought it was the most beautiful road I had ever +seen. And as I traverse it again in the motor-car of +memory, with a knowledge of most of the other beautiful +highways of the world to compare it with, I am +still of the same opinion. So impressive is the scenery, +so profound the silence that we felt a trifle awed and +spoke in whispers when we spoke at all, as though we +were in the nave of a great cathedral. High above us +the tree tops interlaced in a roof of translucent green +through which the sun-rays filtered, turning the road +into a golden trail and the moss on the rocks and the +tree trunks into old-gold plush. The meadowed hillsides +were so thickly strewn with lacy ferns and wild +flowers that it seemed as though the Great Architect +had draped them in the dainty, flowered cretonne they +use in ladies’ boudoirs; and scattered about, as might +be expected in a lady’s boudoir, were silver mirrors—with +rainbow-trout leaping in them. Then there were +the mountains: range piled upon range, peaks peering +over the shoulders of other peaks like soldiers <i>en +échelon</i>. They ran the gamut of the more sober colours; +green at the base, where the lush meadows lay, then +the dark green of the forest, then the rusty brown of +scrub and underbrush, the violet and blue and purple +of the naked rock, and, atop of all, a crown of dazzling +white.</p> + +<p>The versatile gentlemen who write those alluring +folders that you find in racks in railway offices and +hotel lobbies very cleverly play on the Anglo-Saxon<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_375"></a>[375]</span> +love for sport by describing the region through which +their particular system runs as “a sportsman’s paradise.” +It makes small difference whether they are +describing the New Jersey mud-flats or the Berkshire +hills, they are all “sportsman’s paradises.” But the +northern half of Vancouver Island is all that this much-abused +term implies and more. It is, I suppose, the +finest and most accessible fish and game country on the +continent south of the Skeena. I am perfectly aware +that I may be accused of belonging to the Ananias +Club when I say that certain of the smaller streams in +Vancouver Island (and also in northern British Columbia) +are at certain seasons of the year so choked with +salmon that they can be, <i>and are</i>, speared with a +pitchfork, and that ruffed grouse and Chinese pheasants +are so plentiful and tame that they can be knocked +over with a long-handled shovel. It’s true, just the +same. We didn’t pitchfork any salmon ourselves, +because it isn’t our conception of sport, but we saw +natives tossing them out of a stream north of Alberni +as unconcernedly as though they were pitchforking +hay. Nor did we assassinate any game-birds with a +shovel; but more than once, during the run from +Nanoose Bay to Great Central Lake, we had to swerve +aside to avoid running down grouse, which were so +tame that a Plymouth Rock would be wild in comparison; +and once, near Cameron Lake, we actually did +run over the trailing tail-feathers of a gorgeous Chinese +cock pheasant that insolently refused to get off the road.</p> + +<p>Alberni and its bigger, busier sister, Port Alberni,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_376"></a>[376]</span> +occupy the anomalous position of being in the middle +of the island and at the same time on its western coast. +If you will take the trouble to look at the map you +will see that the arm of the sea called Barclay Sound +reaches into the very heart of the island, thus permitting +deep-sea merchantmen to tie up at Port Alberni’s +wharfs and take aboard cargoes of lumber and dried +salmon. Alberni was one of the places that I should +have liked to linger in, so peaceful and easy-going is +its Old-World atmosphere as it dozes the sunny days +away, the soft salt breath of the sea mingling with +the balsamic fragrance of the forest which surrounds +it. Because it is so comparatively little visited, and +because the waters of the sound are famous for their +salmon runs, we expected that we would have an opportunity +to bend our rods off Alberni, but we were met +with disappointment, for the salmon with which these +waters swarm were, for strictly domestic reasons, not +biting at the time we were there. So we kept on to +Great Central Lake, a dozen miles north of Alberni, +through the forest.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus39" style="max-width: 29.6875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus39.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>The Ark, on Great Central Lake. “Like its + prototype of Noah’s day, it is a floating caravansary.”</p> + <p>A wolverine caught in a trap in the forest at the northern end of + Vancouver Island.</p> + <p>SPORT ON VANCOUVER ISLAND.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Even though you do not know a trout from a +turbot, a fly from a spoon; even though some of the +finest scenery in the three Americas could not elicit +an “Oh!” of admiration or an “Ah!” of pleasure, I +hope that some day you will visit Great Central Lake, +if for no other reason than to experience the novelty +of spending a night in its extraordinary hotel. It is +called The Ark, and, like its prototype of Noah’s day, +it is a floating caravansary. Briefly, it is a hotel of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_377"></a>[377]</span> +twenty bedrooms built on a raft anchored in the lake. +When the fishing becomes indifferent in the neighbourhood, +the proprietor hoists his anchors, starts up +the engines of his launch, and tows his floating hotel +elsewhere. The fish have a hard time keeping away +from it, for it pursues them remorselessly. It is patronised +in the main by that world-wide brotherhood +whose members believe that no place is too remote or +too difficult of access if their journey is rewarded by +the thrill of a six-pound trout on an eight-ounce rod +or by glimpsing a bighorn or a bear along a rifle barrel. +For that reason one is quite likely to run across some +very interesting people at The Ark. While we were +there a party of English notabilities arrived. There +were the Earl of Something-or-Other and his beautiful +daughter, Lady Marjorie What’s-her-Name, and a +cousin, the Honourable So-and-So, and the earl’s mine +manager, and one or two others. Now there isn’t +anything very remarkable about meeting British nobility +in the Colonies, for nowadays you find earls and +marquises and dukes floating around everywhere. In +fact, as Mark Twain once remarked of decorations, +you can’t escape them. The remarkable thing about +this particular party was that they had tramped overland +from the extreme northern end of the island, where +some mining properties in which the earl was interested +are situated, through unmapped and almost unknown +forests, sleeping in the open with no covering +save the blankets they carried on their backs, and with +the Lady Marjorie for their cook. She was as slim and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_378"></a>[378]</span> +trim and pretty a girl as one could ask for, and, with +her curly hair creeping out from under her soft hat, her +Norfolk jacket snugly belted to her lissom figure, her +smartly cut knickerbockers and her leather stockings, +she might have stepped out of one of those novels by +the Williamsons.</p> + +<p class="tb">The chief factor in the colonisation of British Columbia +and in the development of its resources is the remarkable +railway expansion which is now taking place. +No region in the world has witnessed such extraordinary +progress in railway construction during the past +five years. Until the spring of 1914 the “C. P. R.,” +as the Canadian Pacific is commonly called throughout +the Dominion, enjoyed a monopoly of freight and +passenger transportation in the province, being scarcely +less autocratic in its attitude and methods than the +Standard Oil Company before it was curbed by Federal +legislation. But when, early in 1914, the last rail of +the Grand Trunk Pacific was laid in the vicinity of +Fort George and the last spike driven, the “C. P. R.” +suddenly found its hitherto undisputed supremacy +challenged by a rich, powerful, and splendidly equipped +system, which, owing to its more northerly route and +easier gradients, is able to make considerably faster +running time from ocean to ocean than its long-established +rival. Moreover, another great transcontinental +system, the Canadian Northern, is already in +partial operation and is rapidly nearing completion, +while the construction gangs have begun work on the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_379"></a>[379]</span> +Pacific Great Eastern, a subsidiary of the Grand Trunk +Pacific, over whose rails the latter plans to reach tide-water +at Vancouver, thus invading territory which the +Canadian Pacific has heretofore regarded as peculiarly +its own. In another year or so, therefore, British +Columbia will not only have a more complete railway +system than either Washington or Oregon, but it will +be the terminus of three great transcontinental systems, +each of which will run from tide-water to tide-water, +under the same management and the same name.</p> + +<p>If you will glance at <a href="#map">the map at the back of this +volume</a> you will see that the railway systems of British +Columbia roughly resemble a gigantic Z. The lower +right-hand corner of the Z represents Kicking Horse +Pass, near Lake Louise, where the Canadian Pacific +crosses the Rockies; the lower left-hand corner may +stand for Vancouver, which is the terminus of the +Canadian Pacific, the Canadian Northern, and the +Pacific Great Eastern; the upper right-hand corner +of the Z we will designate as Yellowhead (or Tête +Jaune) Pass, where both the Grand Trunk Pacific and +the Canadian Northern cross the Rockies; while the +upper left-hand corner is the great terminal port which +the Grand Trunk Pacific has built to order at Prince +Rupert. The lower bar of the Z approximately represents +the Canadian Pacific, the upper bar the Grand +Trunk Pacific, and the diagonal the Canadian Northern.</p> + +<p>The main line of the Canadian Pacific enters the +province at Kicking Horse Pass and, dropping southward +in a series of sweeping curves, strikes the Fraser<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_380"></a>[380]</span> +at Lytton and hugs its northern bank to Vancouver. +From the main line numerous branches straggle southward +to the American border, thus giving access to the +rich country lying between the Kootenai and the Okanogan. +Entering British Columbia far to the northward, +through the Tête Jaune Pass, where the mountains +are much lower, the Canadian Northern lays its +course southwestward in almost a straight line, crossing +the Thompson just above its junction with the +Fraser and thence paralleling the Canadian Pacific +through the cañon of the Fraser, though on the opposite +side of the river, to Vancouver. The Canadian +Northern is, I might add, spending a large sum in the +construction of railway shops and yards at Port Mann, +a place which it is building to order amid the virgin +forest, a few miles east of New Westminster. The +Grand Trunk Pacific likewise uses the Tête Jaune Pass +as a gateway. Instead of turning southward after +crossing the mountains, however, it swings far to the +north, following the east fork of the Fraser to Fort +George and thence up the level and fertile valleys of +the Nechako and the Bulkley to New Hazelton and so +down the Skeena to Prince Rupert. Recognising the +necessity of having a means of direct access to Vancouver, +which is the metropolis of western Canada, the +Grand Trunk Pacific now has under construction a subsidiary +system, to be known as the Pacific Great Eastern, +which, leaving the main line at Fort George, will +follow the Fraser due southward to Lillooet and then +strike directly across a virgin country to Vancouver,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_381"></a>[381]</span> +thus giving the Grand Trunk Pacific two west-coast +terminals instead of one. The Grand Trunk Pacific +engineers have also drawn plans for a line running due +north from New Hazelton toward the Yukon, which +would throw open to exploitation the rich coal-fields of +the Groundhog and the fertile prairies of northernmost +British Columbia, the idea being, of course, to ultimately +effect a junction with the proposed Federal railway +in Alaska, thus bringing Alaska into direct railway +communication with the outside world.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus40" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus40.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>Indians breaking camp.</p> + <p>Mr. Powell arriving at a frontier hotel in the Nechako country.</p> + <p>An Indian bridge near New Hazelton.</p> + <p>LIFE AT THE BACK OF BEYOND.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Though enormously rich in timber and ore, Vancouver +Island has not yet had its share of railway expansion, +its only system of transportation at present +being the Esquimault & Nanaimo Railway, which runs +from Victoria to Alberni, in the heart of the island. +The Canadian Northern, however, proposes to build +a line from Victoria half-way up the west coast of the +island, while the Grand Trunk Pacific, going its rival +one better, has obtained a concession for building a +railway from one end of the island to the other, thus +opening up its enormously rich fisheries, mines, and +forests. With this era of railway expansion immediately +before them, it seems to me that the British Columbians +are quite justified in looking at the future +through rose-coloured glasses.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus41" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus41.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>The bull train: the last on the continent.</p> + <p>The dog train: taking in supplies to the miners of the Groundhog coal-fields.</p> + <p>TRANSPORT ON AMERICA’S LAST FRONTIER.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>Consider the cities, how they grow—Prince Rupert, +for example. A city literally made to order, just +as a tailor would make a suit of clothes, is something +of a novelty even in an age which jeers at precedent +and slaps tradition in the face. “Rome was not built<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_382"></a>[382]</span> +in a day,” but that was because it had no transcontinental +railway system to finance and superintend and +push forward its construction. If a Gaul, Transalpine, +& Pompeian Railway had been in operation, and its +directors knew their business, they would have turned +loose their engineers, architects, and builders and, after +staking out and draining a town site beside the Tiberian +marshes, they would have run up the Eternal City and +auctioned off the building lots along the Via Appia as +expeditiously as the Grand Trunk Pacific Railway has +brought into being the west-coast terminus which it +has named Prince Rupert after that adventurous Palatine +prince, nephew of Charles I, who was in turn a +cavalry leader, a naval commander, and the first +governor of the Hudson Bay Company. Unless your +family atlas is of recent vintage (and I have regretfully +observed that most of them were purchased at +about the period of Stanley’s explorations) you will +search it in vain for Prince Rupert, for this custom-made +municipality came into existence about the same +time as the tango and the turkey-trot. The easiest +way to locate it, then, is to trace with your finger +parallel 54° 40′ North (the slogan “Fifty-four forty or +fight!” you will recall, once nearly brought on a war +with England) until it reaches the Pacific Coast of +North America. There, five hundred and fifty miles +north of Vancouver, forty miles south of the Alaskan +border, on Kai-en Island, at the mouth of the Skeena +River, set on a range of hills overlooking one of the +finest deep-water harbours in the world, is Prince<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_383"></a>[383]</span> +Rupert. It is in the same latitude as London and has +a wet and foggy climate which cannot fail to make a +Londoner feel very much at home. Probably never before +have there been so much time and money expended +in the planning and preliminary work of a new city. +The town site was chosen only after a careful inspection +of the entire British Columbia coast-line and was laid +out by a famous firm of Boston landscape engineers +with the same attention to detail which they would have +given to laying out a great estate. Experts who have +studied the plan on which Prince Rupert is built assert +that in time it will be one of the most beautiful cities +on the continent. The site is a picturesque one, for, +from the six-mile-long shore-line which sweeps around +the front of the city, the ground rises abruptly, so that +on clear days—which, by the way, are far from common—a +magnificent view may be had from the heights of +the forested and fiord-indented coast, of the island-studded +channel, of the Indian village of Metlakatla, +known as the “Holy City,” and, on rare occasions, of +the mountains of Alaska. Unless one is conversant +with the development of the Pacific Coast; unless one +has seen its seaports—Victoria, Vancouver, Seattle, +Tacoma, San Pedro, San Diego—spring into being +almost overnight, one cannot fully realise the possibilities +and potentialities of this new city with the +unfamiliar name. To begin with, the distance from +Liverpool to Yokohama by way of Prince Rupert is +eight hundred miles shorter than via New York and +San Francisco; it is five hundred miles nearer the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_384"></a>[384]</span> +Orient than any other Pacific port. Nothing illustrates +more graphically the strategic value of its position +than the fact that a traveller bound, say, for New +York from China, Japan, or Alaska can board a train +at Prince Rupert and be as far as Winnipeg, or virtually +half across the continent, before the steamer +from which he disembarked could reach Vancouver. +In addition to the shorter distance across the Pacific +must be added the much faster time that can be made +by rail over the practically level grades (four tenths +of one per cent) that the Grand Trunk Pacific has +obtained through the lower mountains to the north, +which will enable trains to be moved at the rate of two +miles for every one mile on the heavier grades of rival +systems. What is most important of all, however, +Prince Rupert has at its back probably the potentially +richest hinterland in the world—a veritable commercial +empire waiting to be explored, developed, and exploited. +The mineral wealth of all this vast region, the forest +products, the gold, the coal, the copper, the iron ore +of northern British Columbia and the Yukon, the food +products of the prairie provinces, and the fish and fur +of the far North—in short, all the westbound export +wealth of this resourceful region—will find its outlet to +the sea at Prince Rupert as surely and as true to natural +laws as its rivers empty into the Pacific.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus42" style="max-width: 43.75em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus42.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>The pack-train: crossing the prairies of + northern British Columbia.</p> + <p>The wagon-train: a settler on his way into the interior over the Cariboo Trail.</p> + <p>TRANSPORT ON AMERICA’S LAST FRONTIER.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>You of the sheltered life: you, Mr. Bank President, +you, Mr. Lawyer, you, Mr. Business Man, you, +Mr. Tourist, who travel in Pullman cars and sleep in +palatial hostelries, have you any real conception of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_385"></a>[385]</span> +breed of men who are conquering this wilderness, who +are laying these railways, who are building these cities, +who are making these new markets and new playgrounds +for you and me? Some of them have saved +and scrimped for years that they might be able to buy +a ticket from the Middle West, or from the English +shires, or from the Rhine banks to this beckoning, +primeval, promiseful land. Others, taking their families +and their household belongings with them, have +trekked overland by wagon, just as their grandfathers +did before them for the taking of the West, trudging +in the dust beside the weary horses, cooking over +camp-fires in the forest or on the open prairie, sleeping, +rolled in their blankets, under the stars. Some there +are who have come overland from the Yukon, on snowshoes, +mayhap; their pitifully meagre possessions on +their back, living on the food which they killed, their +only sign-posts the endless line of wire-draped poles. +There are the engineers, who, mocking at the hostility +of the countenance which this savage, untamed land +turns toward them, are pushing forward and ever +forward their twin lines of steel, cutting their way +through well-nigh impenetrable forests, throwing their +spider spans across angry rivers and forbidding gorges, +running their levels and laying their rails and driving +their spikes oblivious to torrential rains or blinding +snows, to blistering heat or freezing cold. Then, too, +there are the silent, efficient, quick-witted men who +have maintained law and order through the length and +breadth of this great province—travelling on duty<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_386"></a>[386]</span> +through its wildest parts, amid dangers and privations +without end, at one time deep in the snows of the far +Nor’west, at others making their hazardous way on +horseback along the brink of precipices which make +one sick and dizzy to look down; swimming rapid rivers +holding to the tails of their horses or journeying over +the frozen lands with teams of dogs; one month in the +mining camps on the uppermost reaches of the Fraser +and the next carrying the fear of the law to the wild +tribes of the Kootenai. Such are the men who, in +Britain’s westernmost outpost, are clinching down the +rivets of empire.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_387"></a>[387]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="XIV">XIV<br> +<span class="smaller">BACK OF BEYOND</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_388"></a>[388]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“I hear the tread of pioneers,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Of millions yet to be;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The first low wash of waves where soon</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Shall roll a human sea.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The elements of empire here</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Are plastic yet and warm,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The chaos of a mighty world</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Is rounding into form.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_389"></a>[389]</span></p> + +<h3>XIV<br> +<span class="smaller">BACK OF BEYOND</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>Most people—and by that I mean nine hundred +and ninety-eight in every thousand—have come +to believe quite positively that, on this continent at +least, there is no longer any region that can truthfully +be called “The Frontier.” Therein they are wrong. +Because the municipality of Tombstone has applied +to the Arizona Legislature for permission to change its +name, because the cow-puncher is abandoning the +range for the more lucrative occupation of cavorting +before a moving-picture camera, because the roulette +ball clicks no longer behind open doors in any Western +town is no proof that the frontier is no more. As a +matter of fact, it has only been pushed back. There +still exists a real frontier, all wool and eight hundred +miles wide, together with all the orthodox concomitants +of cowboys, Concord coaches, log cabins, prairie-schooners, +pack-trains, trappers, grizzly bears, and Indians. +But it won’t last much longer. This is the last call. +If you would see this stage of nation building in all its +thrilling realism and picturesqueness you have need +to hurry. A few more years—half a dozen at the most—and +store clothes will replace the <i>chaparejos</i> and sombreros; +the mail-sacks, instead of being carried in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_390"></a>[390]</span> +boots of stage-coaches, will be flung from the doors of +flying trains; the motor-car will supplant the prairie-schooner +and the pack-train.</p> + +<p>Answer me, now. If, at a moderate outlay of +time, money, and exertion, you could visit a region as +untamed and colourful as was the country beyond the +Pecos forty years back and peopled by the hardiest +breed of adventurers that ever foreran the columns +of civilisation, would you give up for a time the comforts +of the sheltered life and go? You would? I +hoped so. Get out the atlas, then, from its dusty place +of exile and open it to the map of North America +that I may show you the way. In the upper left-hand +corner, stretching its scarlet bulk across eleven degrees +of printed latitude, is British Columbia, whose central +and northern portions contain thousands upon thousands +of square miles that have never felt the pressure +of a white man’s foot or echoed to a white man’s voice. +Here is the last of the “Last West”; here the frontier +is making its final stand; here, fighting the battles +and solving the problems of civilisation, are to be +found the survivors of that race of rugged adventurers, +now almost extinct, who replaced the forest with the +wheat-field—the Pioneers.</p> + +<p>There are several routes by which one can reach +the interior of the province: from the made-to-order +seaport of Prince Rupert up the Skeena by railway to +New Hazelton and Fort Fraser, for example; or down +the South Fork of the Fraser by river steamer from +Tête Jaune Cache to Fort George; or from the country<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_391"></a>[391]</span> +of the Kootenai overland through the Okanogan and +Lillooet. These, however, are obscure side entrances +and more or less difficult of access. The front door to +the hinterland, and the logical way to enter it, is by +way of Ashcroft, a one-street-two-hotels-and-eight-saloons +town on the main line of the Canadian Pacific, +eight hours east of Vancouver as the <i>Imperial Limited</i> +goes. At Ashcroft, which is the principal outfitting +point for all this region, begins the historic highway +known as the Cariboo Trail, by which you can travel +northward—provided you are able to get a seat in the +crowded stages—until civilisation sits down to rest +and the wilderness begins.</p> + +<p>What the Wells-Fargo Company, with its comprehensive +system of mail, passenger, and freight services, +was to our own West in the days before the railway +came, the British Columbia Express Company, commonly +known as the “B. C. X.,” is to that vast region +which is watered by the Fraser. Nowhere that I can +recall has travelling through a wild and mountainous +country been reduced to such a science. Although the +company operates upward of a thousand miles of stage +lines, along which are distributed more than three +hundred horses at relay stations approximately sixteen +miles apart, its coaches, in spite of blizzards, torrential +rains, and ofttimes incredibly atrocious roads, maintain +their schedules with the rigidity of mail-trains. +The company’s equipment is as complete in its way as +that of a great railway system, its rolling stock consisting +of everything from a two-horse thorough-brace<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_392"></a>[392]</span> +“jerky” to a six-horse Concord stage, to say nothing +of automobiles and sleighs. In conjunction with its +system of vehicular transportation it operates a service +of river steamers, specially constructed for running +the rapids, upon the Upper Fraser and the +Nechako.</p> + +<p>The backbone of the “B. C. X.” system, and, +indeed, of all transportation in the British Columbian +hinterland, is the Cariboo Trail, a government post-road, +three hundred miles long, which was built by the +Royal Engineers in the early sixties as a result of the +rush to the gold-fields on Williams Creek. Starting +from Ashcroft, it runs due north for two hundred and +twenty miles to Quesnel, on the Upper Fraser, where +it abruptly turns westward and continues to its terminus +at Barkerville, once a famous mining-camp but now +a quiet agricultural community in the heart of the +Cariboo. Scattered along the trail, at intervals of +fifteen miles or so, are rest-houses where the wayfarer +can obtain surprisingly well-cooked meals at a uniform +charge of six bits—a “bit,” I might explain for the +benefit of the Eastern chechako, being equivalent to +twelve and a half cents. For the same price the +traveller can get a clean and moderately soft bed, +although he must accept it as part and parcel of frontier +life should he find that the room to which he is +assigned already contains half a dozen snoring occupants. +These rest-houses, which, with their out-buildings, +stables, and corrals, are built entirely of +logs, are often liberally coated with whitewash and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_393"></a>[393]</span> +occasionally surrounded by stockades and constantly +reminded me of the post stations which marked the +end of a day’s journey on the Great Siberian Road +before Prince Orloff and his railway builders came. +During the summer months the “up journey” of three +hundred and twenty miles from Ashcroft to Fort +George is performed by a conjoined service of motor-cars, +stage-coaches, and river boats, and, if the roads +are dry, is made in about four days. As a one-way +ticket costs sixty-five dollars, exclusive of meals, the +fare works out at a trifle over twenty cents a mile, +thus making it one of the most expensive journeys of +its length in the world, being even costlier, if I remember +rightly, than the one by the Abyssinian railway from +Djibuti to Deré Dawa. It is worth every last penny of +the fare, however, for there is about it a novelty, a +picturesqueness, an excitement, which cannot be duplicated +on this continent. From the moment that +you set your foot on the hub of the stage-coach in Ashcroft +until your steamer slips out of Prince Rupert +Harbour, southward bound, you are seeing with your +own eyes, instead of through the unconvincing mediums +of the Western novel and the moving-picture screen, +a nation in the cellar-digging stage of its existence; +you are transported for a brief time to the Epoch of +the Dawn.</p> + +<p>In anticipation of the atrocious roads which we +expected to encounter, I had had the car fitted with +shock-absorbers and had brought with me from Vancouver +an entire extra set of springs, and at Ashcroft<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_394"></a>[394]</span> +we selected an equipment with as great care as though +we were starting on an East African <i>safari</i>. A pick, a +long-handled shovel, a pair of axes, a block and tackle, +four spare tires, and a dozen inner tubes comprised the +essentials of our outfit, to which was added at Quesnel +a supply of tinned foods, a small shelter tent, a set of +rubber sheets, and three of the largest-size Hudson +Bay blankets. It’s a costly business, this motoring +in lands where motors have never gone before. The +most important thing of all, of course, is the gasoline, +the entire success of our venture depending upon our +ability to carry a sufficient supply with us to get us +through the six hundred miles of uninhabited wilderness +between Quesnel and the Skeena. By reducing +our personal belongings to a minimum, we succeeded +in getting eight five-gallon tins into the tonneau of the +car, in addition to the twenty gallons in the tank, thus +giving us a total of sixty gallons, which, theoretically +at least, should have sufficed us. As a matter of fact, +it did not suffice to carry us half-way to the Skeena, so +slow was the going and so terrible the condition of the +road, and, had I not been so fortunate as to obtain an +order from a British development company on its agents +at several points in the interior, instructing them to supply +us with gasoline from some drums which had been +taken in at enormous expense a year or so before in a +futile attempt to establish an automobile service, we +should have been compelled to abandon the car in the +wilderness for lack of fuel. Gasoline, like everything +else, is expensive in the interior: at Ashcroft I paid<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_395"></a>[395]</span> +fifty cents a gallon, at Quesnel a dollar, and thereafter, +until we reached the end of steel at Moricetown, two +dollars a gallon—which, so I was assured, was exactly +what it had cost the company to freight it in. Briefly, +our plan was this: to start from Ashcroft, a station on +the Canadian Pacific, two hundred miles from the coast, +and follow the Cariboo Trail northward to Quesnel, +thence striking through the unsettled and almost unexplored +wilderness which reaches from the Fraser to +the Skeena, following the Yukon Telegraph Trail +through Fort Fraser to New Hazleton, on the Skeena, +which is barely half a hundred miles south of the +Alaskan border. I asked every one I met in Ashcroft +as to our chances of getting through, and the more +people to whom I talked the slimmer they seemed to +become.</p> + +<p>One man assured us that there was no road whatever +north of Fort Fraser and that, if we wanted to +get through, we would have to take the car apart and +pack it in on the backs of horses, as an automobile +agent from Seattle had done the year before; another +told us that there were no bridges and that we would +be compelled to hire Siwash Indians to make rafts to +ferry us across the streams; still a third cheered us +up by assuring us that we could always get a team to +haul us out.</p> + +<p>“An eight-horse swing ought to haul you out in +a fortnight,” he remarked cheeringly.</p> + +<p>“What would it cost?” I inquired.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” he answered, “if you’re a good hand at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_396"></a>[396]</span> +bargaining you ought to get the outfit for about a +hundred dollars a day.”</p> + +<p>That cheered us up tremendously, of course.</p> + +<p>We started from Ashcroft early on an autumn +morning. The air was like sparkling Moselle, overhead +was a sky of wash-tub blue, and before us the +gray ribbon of the Cariboo Trail stretched away, between +dun and barren hills, into the unknown. The +entire population of the little town had turned out to +see us off, and as we moved away, with the long, low +bonnet of the car pointed northward, they gave us a +cheer and shouted after us, “Hope you’ll get through, +fellows!” and “Good luck!” Before we left Seattle +I had bought a little silk American flag, and this we +flew from a metal rod at the front of the hood, and +more than once, when we were mired in the mud below +the Nechako, and were utterly exhausted and ready to +quit, it was the sight of that bit of tricoloured bunting +fluttering bravely before us which spurred us on.</p> + +<p>Were the Cariboo Trail in certain of the Eastern +States it would be described by the natives as “a fair +to middlin’ road,” and it is all of that and more—in the +dry season. When we traversed it, in the early fall, it +had not yet been rutted by the torrential autumn +rains and heavy teaming and was as good a road as an +automobile pioneer could ask for. In that journey up +the Cariboo Trail were concentrated all the glamour +and colour and panorama of that strange, wild border +life which most people think of as having passed with +the pony express and the buffalo. A stage-coach rattled<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_397"></a>[397]</span> +past amid a rolling cloud of dust, its scarlet body +lurching and swaying on its leathern springs, its four +horses at a spanking trot, the driver cracking his whip-lash +spasmodically between the ears of his leaders, for +he carried his Majesty’s mails and must make his six +miles an hour, hour in and hour out. Like a gigantic +boa-constrictor, a pack-train wound slowly past, the +burdened mules plodding by dejectedly, long ears to +shaven tails. Scattered along the line, like mounted +officers beside a marching column, were the packers: +wiry, iron-hard fellows, their faces sun tanned to the +colour of their saddles; picturesque figures in their +goatskin <i>chaparejos</i>, their vivid neckerchiefs, and their +broad-brimmed, rakish hats. Where they were bound +for, Heaven only knows: with supplies for the operators +of the Yukon Telegraph, perhaps, or the miners of the +Groundhog, or, it might be, for the lonely trading-posts +on Great Slave Lake and the headwaters of the +Liard and the Peace. In the pack-train’s dusty wake +would plod a solitary prospector, dog dirty, his buckskin +shirt glazed with grime, his tent, pick, shovel, and +his meagre store of food loaded upon a single patient +donkey. Occasionally we passed some Sguswap and +Siwash ranchers—for the Indian of British Columbia +takes more kindly to an agricultural life than do his +brothers on the American side of the border—gaily +clad squaws and bright-eyed children peering curiously +at our strange vehicle from beneath the canvas +covers of the wagons, driving into the settlements to +barter the produce of their holdings in the back country<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_398"></a>[398]</span> +for cartridges, red blankets, ginger ale, perhaps a +phonograph.</p> + +<p>But oftenest of all we met the freighters, their +six and eight and twelve horse teams straining at the +huge, creaking, white-topped wagons—the freight +trains of the railroadless frontier. Though they bear +a marked resemblance to the prairie-schooners of +crossing-the-plains days, the British Columbian freight +wagons are barely half as large as the enormous scow-bodied +vehicles in which the American pioneers trekked +westward. Their inferior carrying capacity is compensated +for, however, by the custom of linking them +in pairs, experience having proven that to attempt to +negotiate the hairpin turns in the mountain roads with +vehicles having an unusually long wheel-base is but +to invite disaster. In freighting parlance, five wagons +with their teams are called a “swing,” the drivers are +known as “skinners,” and the man in charge of the +outfit is the “swing boss.” To meet one of these +wagon-trains on a road that was uncomfortably narrow +at the best and frequently bordered by a sheer cliff +was not a pleasant business, for, according to law, the +freighter is always permitted to take the inside of the +road, so that more than once we were compelled to +pull so far to the outside, in order to give the huge +vehicles space to get by, that there was not room between +our outer wheels and the precipice’s brink for +a starved greyhound to pass.</p> + +<p>The deeper into the wilderness you push, the more +infrequent become the mails, until, north of the Fraser,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_399"></a>[399]</span> +the settlers receive their letters and newspapers only +once a month during the summer and frequently not +for many months on end when the rains have turned +the trails into impassable morasses. When we left +Quesnel for Fort Fraser the mail was already two +weeks overdue, and the roads were in such terrible +condition that the driver of the mail-stage would not +even hazard a guess as to when he could start. At +frequent intervals along the way men were camping +in the rain-soaked brush beside the road, with no protection +save the scant shelter afforded by a dog-tent +or a bit of canvas stretched between two trees. At the +sound of our approach they would run out and hail +us and inquire eagerly as to whether we could tell +them when the mail was likely to be along. These men +were settlers whose ranches lay far back in the wilderness, +and they had been waiting patiently beside that +road for many days, straining their ears to catch the +rattle of the wheels which would bring them word from +the loved ones at home. One of them, a clean-cut, +clear-eyed young Englishman, who was camping beside +the road in a little shelter tent, told us that he had +been there for fifteen days waiting for the postman.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got a little ranch about thirty miles back,” +he explained, “and I was so afraid that I might miss +the mail that I tramped out and have been sleeping +here by the roadside waiting for it. My wife and the +kiddies are back in the old country, in Devonshire, +waiting until I can get a home for them out here. I +haven’t had a letter from them now for going on seven<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_400"></a>[400]</span> +weeks. The last one that I had told me that my little +girl was sick, and I’m pretty anxious about her. It’s +bad news that the coach hasn’t started yet. I guess +the only thing to do is to keep on waiting.”</p> + +<p>To such men as these I lift my hat in respect +and admiration. Resolute, patient, persevering, facing +with stout hearts and smiling lips all the hardships +and discouragements that such a life has to bring, +they are the real advance-guards of progress, the +skirmishers of civilisation. In Rhodesia, the Sudan, +West Africa, New Zealand, Australia, Canada you find +them, wherever the flag of England flies, clamping +down the rivets of empire.</p> + +<p>A great deal has been written about the brand of +Englishman who goes by the name of remittance-man. +With a few pounds a month to go to the devil on, he +haunts the highways and byways of the newer lands, +working when he must, idling when he may. In Cape +Town, Bulawayo, Johannesburg, Sydney, Melbourne, +Calgary you will find him, hanging over the polished +bars, or, if his remittances permit, in the local clubs. +As his long-suffering relatives generally send him as +far from home as they can buy a ticket, he has become +a familiar figure in the western provinces of the Dominion +and particularly along the Pacific Coast. Dressed +in well-cut tweeds or flannels and smoking the inevitable +brier, you can see him at almost any hour of any +day strolling aimlessly about the corridors of the +Empress Hotel in Victoria or dawdling about the +Union Club. But you rarely find him in the British<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_401"></a>[401]</span> +Columbian bush. The atmosphere—and by this I +do not mean the climate—is uncongenial, for “he +ain’t a worker” and in consequence is cordially detested +by the native-born no less than by those industrious +settlers whose mail from home brings them no monthly +cheques. In that country, if a man does not go out +to his labour in the morning he is counted an undesirable +addition to the population. Hence, though the +hinterland is filled with the discards of the pack, comparatively +few of them bear the despised label of +remittance-man.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus43" style="max-width: 31.25em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus43.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>A meeting of the old and the new.</p> + <p>“The freight trains of the railroadless frontier.”</p> + <p>“The rest-houses are built entirely of logs and occasionally surrounded + by stockades.”</p> + <p>SCENES ON THE CARIBOO TRAIL.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>But that is not saying that you do not find numbers +of well-bred, well-educated young Englishmen +chopping out careers for themselves up there in the +forests of the North. We came across two such at a +desolate and lonely ranch midway between Quesnel +and Blackwater, three hundred miles from the nearest +railway and thirty from the nearest house. We stopped +at their little cabin and asked for lunch, and they welcomed +us as they would a certified cheque. One of +them, I learned after considerable questioning, was the +nephew of an earl and had stroked an Oxford crew; +the other, with a diffidence that was delightful, showed +me the picture of a rambling, ivy-covered manor-house +in Hampshire which he called home, and remarked +quite casually that he had been something of a cricketer +before he came out to the Colonies and had played for +the Gentlemen of England. Yet here were these two +youngsters, gently born and cleanly bred, “pigging +it,” as they themselves expressed it, in a one-room<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_402"></a>[402]</span> +cabin up here at the Back of Beyond. Good Heavens! +how glad they were to see us—not for our own sakes, +you understand, but because we were messengers from +that great, gay world from which they had exiled +themselves. While one of them pared the potatoes, +the other fried the bacon—“sow-belly” they called +it—in ill-smelling cottolene, and both of them fired +questions at us like shots from an automatic: what +were the newest plays, the latest songs, how long +since I had been in London, was the chorus at the +Gaiety as good-looking as it used to be, was Winston +Churchill really making good in the cabinet or was he +just a bally ass, did we think that there was anything +to this talk about the Ulstermen revolting—and all the +other questions that homesick exiles ask.</p> + +<p>“What on earth induces you to stay on in this +God-forsaken place?” I asked, when at length they +paused in their questioning for lack of breath. “No +neighbours, no theatres, no amusements, mails once a +month if you are lucky, rain six months out of the +twelve, and snow for four months more. Why don’t you +try some place nearer civilisation? You can’t do much +more than make a bare living up here, and a pretty +poor one at that, eh?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said one of them apologetically, “we do +a lot better up here than you’d think. Why, last season +we cut a hundred tons of hay and this year, now +that we’ve cleared some more land, we’ll probably get +a hundred and fifty.”</p> + +<p>“A hundred tons of hay!” I exclaimed, with pity<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_403"></a>[403]</span> +in my voice. “Heavens alive, man, what does that +amount to?”</p> + +<p>“It amounted to something over ten thousand +dollars,” he answered. “Up here, you see, hay is a +pretty profitable crop—it sells for a hundred dollars a +ton. Besides, we like the life jolly well. It’s a bit +lonely, of course, but we’re fond of the open and there’s +all sort of fishin’ and shootin’—there’s a skin of a +grizzly that I killed last week tacked up at the back of +the house. And,” he added, with a hint of embarrassment, +“this life is a lot more worth while than loafin’ +around London and doin’ the society-Johnnie act. We +feel, y’ know, as though we were doin’ a bit toward +buildin’ up the country—sort of bally pioneers.”</p> + +<p>Though they probably didn’t know it, those two +young fellows in flannel shirts and cord breeches, who +had evidently left England because they were tired of +living <i>à la métronome</i>, because they had wearied of +garden-parties and club windows and the family pew, +were members in good standing of the Brotherhood +of Nation Builders.</p> + +<p>Though we had started from Quesnel with sixty +gallons of gasoline, the going had been so heavy that +by the time we reached the telegraph hut at Bobtail +Lake, where the development company of which I +have already spoken had left the first of its drums of +gasoline, our supply was seriously diminished. These +relay telegraph stations are scattered at intervals of +fifty miles or so along that single strand of copper wire, +two thousand miles long, which connects Dawson City<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_404"></a>[404]</span> +with Vancouver. Many of them are so remotely situated +that the only time the operators see a white man’s +face or hear a white man’s voice is when the semiannual +pack-train brings them their supplies in the +spring and fall. I can conceive of no more intolerable +existence than the lives led by these men, sitting at +deal tables within the lithograph-covered walls of their +log cabins, with no neighbours, no amusements, nothing +under the sun to do save listen to the ceaseless +chatter of a telegraph instrument, day after day, week +after week, month after month the same. Imagine +the monotony of it! There were two young men at +the Bobtail Lake hut, an operator and a linesman, +and when they saw the little flag of stripes and stars +fluttering from the bonnet of the car they waved their +hats and cheered madly. To you who lead sheltered +lives in offices or factories or stores, the flag may be +nothing more than a bit of red-white-and-blue bunting, +but to those who live in the earth’s far corners, where +it is rarely seen, it stands for home and country and +family and friends, and is reverenced accordingly.</p> + +<p>“It seems darned good to see the old flag again,” +one of the young men remarked a trifle huskily. “This +is the first time I’ve laid eyes on it in more’n two years. +When we heard you coming through the woods we +thought we must be dreaming. We never expected to +see an automobile up in this God-forsaken hole.”</p> + +<p>“You’re not a Canadian, then?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“Not on your tintype. I’m from Tennessee. +Used to be a train-despatcher down in Texas, got tired<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_405"></a>[405]</span> +of living in a box car with no trees but sage-brush and +no neighbours but coyotes, so I wandered up here. +And believe me, I wish I was back in God’s country +again.”</p> + +<p>That night we spent at a ranch on the Blackwater. +The English owner and his wife were absent in Vancouver, +but the ranch hand in charge of the place was +only too willing to play the part of host. The ranch-house, +though built of logs, for up there there is nothing +else to build with, was considerably more pretentious +than the general run of frontier dwellings. Instead of +the customary kitchen-living-dining-sleeping room, it +had a comfortable living-room with a hospitable stone +fireplace and the floor thickly strewn with bearskins, +and two sleeping rooms, while in front, in pathetic +imitation of some old-country garden, was a tiny +plat set out to fuchsias and mignonette and geraniums +and surrounded by an attempt at a picket fence. The +floor of the house was of planks hand-hewn; cedar +poles laid lengthwise and covered with shakes and sod +formed a roof impervious to snow or rain; the chinks +in the log walls were stuffed with moss and clay and +papered over with illustrations torn from the London +weeklies. Like nearly all of the houses that we saw in +the interior of the province, its furniture was crude and +obviously home-made, with benches instead of chairs, +for the freighters, who charge thirty cents a pound for +hauling merchandise in from the railway, refuse to +bother with anything so unprofitable as chairs, which +require space out of all proportion to their weight.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_406"></a>[406]</span> +Lying on the table in the living-room, atop of a heap +of year-old newspapers and magazines (for in the north +country printed matter of any description is something +to be read and reread and then read once again +before it is passed on to a neighbour) were two much-thumbed +volumes. I picked them up, for I was curious +to see what sort of literature would appeal to people +who lived their lives in such a place. One was the +“Discourses of Epictetus,” the other “Manners and +Social Usages”—with a book-mark at the chapter entitled +“The Etiquette of Visiting Cards”! And the +nearest neighbour, a Swedish rancher with a Siwash +wife, lived fifty miles away.</p> + +<p>If the food at Blackwater had been as good as the +house, or only half as good, there would have been +little left to be desired. The ranch hand who was in +charge of the place and who did the cooking—he vouchsafed +the information that he had been a British soldier +in India before coming to Canada to seek his fortune +and wished to God that he was back in India again—made +it a point, so he told us, to bake enough soda-biscuits +the first of every month to last until the next +month came round. As we were there about the +twenty-eighth, the biscuits were quite hard—like dog-biscuits, +only not so appetising. Then we had a platter +of “sow-belly” swimming in an ocean of rancid grease; +stone-cold boiled potatoes, a pan of the inevitable +stewed prunes, and mugs of evil-looking coffee, which +was really chicory in disguise. But what would you? +This was not Fifth Avenue; this was the Frontier.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_407"></a>[407]</span></p> + +<p>I was particularly impressed throughout our journey +across British Columbia with the almost paternal +interest the provincial government takes in the welfare +of the settlers. On trees and buildings everywhere +are posted crown-surmounted notices relating to everything +from the filing of homestead claims to the prevention +of forest-fires. Rest-houses are maintained +by the government along certain of the less-travelled +routes; new roads are being cut through the wilderness +in every direction; forest-rangers and agricultural +experts are constantly riding about the province with +open eyes and ears; in every settlement is stationed a +government agent from whom the settlers can obtain +information and advice on every subject under the sun. +Law and order prevail to an extraordinary degree. I +was told that there are only three police constables +between Ashcroft and Fort George, a distance of more +than three hundred miles—and this in a savage and +sparsely settled country, where a criminal would have +comparatively little difficulty in making his escape. +This remarkable absence of crime is due in large measure, +no doubt, to the rigid prohibition of the sale of +alcoholic liquor within a certain distance of a public +work, such as the building of a railway; in fact, the +workman is debarred from intoxicants as rigorously +as the Indian. “No drink, no crime,” say the authorities, +and results have shown that they know what they +are talking about. Not until the railway is completed +and the construction gangs have moved on are the +saloons permitted to throw open their doors. Although<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_408"></a>[408]</span> +this policy unquestionably makes for law and +order, it is by no means popular with the workmen, +who refuse to consider any place deserving of the name +of town until it has obtained a licence. “Such and +such a place is a hell of a fine town,” I was frequently +assured. “They’ve got a saloon there!” Judged by +this standard, Fort George, which is a division point +on the Grand Trunk Pacific, at the junction of the +Fraser and Nechako Rivers, and will unquestionably +become in time a second Winnipeg or Calgary, is a +veritable metropolis, for it has considerably more than +its share of gin-palaces and booze joints. The poet has +vividly described it in a single couplet:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“The camp at the bend of the river, with its dozen saloons aglare,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Its gambling dens ariot, its gramophones all ablare.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="noindent">It is not surprising, therefore, that Fort George is a +Mecca for the dry of throat, who make bacchanalian +pilgrimages from incredible distances to its bottle-decorated +shrines; for if a man is determined to “go on +a jag” no power on earth, not even a journey of a hundred +miles or more, can prevent him from gratifying +his desires. Indeed, it is by no means unusual for a +man to work on a ranch or on the railway until he has +accumulated a half year’s wages, and then, throwing +up his job, to tramp a hundred miles through the +wilderness to Fort George and blow every last cent of +his hard-earned money in one grand jamboree. What +a sudden falling off in intemperance there would be in +a civilised community if a man had to walk a hundred<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_409"></a>[409]</span> +miles to get a drink! What? Yet this proscription of +alcohol has, in a way, defeated its own object, for the +men, being denied what might be described as legal +liquors, resort to innumerable more or less efficient +substitutes. Red ink they will swallow with avidity, +for it contains a good percentage of low-grade alcohol, +and the colour, no doubt, completes the illusion. Another +popular refreshment is lemon extract, such as is +commonly used in civilised households for flavouring +jellies and puddings. But the favourite beverage, +which is to all other alcoholic substitutes what vintage +champagne is to all other wines, is a certain patent +medicine which contains <i>eighty per cent of pure alcohol</i>. +This is as common in the “end-of-steel” towns and the +construction camps as cocktails are in a New York +club, both workmen and Indians pouring it down like +water. It is warranted to cure all pains, and it does, +for the man who drinks two bottles of it is dead to the +world for at least a day.</p> + +<p>As a result of its popularity with the thirsty ones, +Fort George might truthfully be described as a very +lively town. In one of its saloons twelve white-aproned +individuals are constantly on duty behind a bar of +polished oak; behind the cash-register sits a watchful +man with a cocked revolver on his knees; while mingling +with the crowd in front of the bar are three bull-necked, +big-bicepsed persons known as the “chuckers-out.” +Instead of throwing a patron who becomes +obstreperous into the street, however, in which case he +would stagger to the saloon opposite and get rid of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_410"></a>[410]</span> +balance of his money, he is thrown into the “cooler,” +where he is given an opportunity to sleep off the effects +of his debauch, after which he is ready to start in all +over again. As a result of this ingenious system of +conservation, very little money gets away.</p> + +<p>These frontier communities have handled the perplexing +problem of the social evil in a novel manner. +The bedecked and bedizened women who follow in the +wake of the gold seekers and the construction gangs, +instead of being permitted to flaunt themselves within +the town, are forced to reside in colonies of their own +well without the municipal limits, sometimes half a +dozen miles back in the bush. The miner who wishes +to see his light-o’-love is compelled, therefore, to expend +a considerable amount of time and shoe-leather, +though I regret to add that this did not appear to act +as a serious deterrent, the deepest-worn trails that I +saw in the Northland being those which led from the +settlements to these colonies of easy virtue.</p> + +<p>Shortly after we left Blackwater Ranch it began +to rain—not a sudden shower which comes and drenches +and goes, but one of those steady, disheartening drizzles, +which in this region sometimes last for a week. +The road—I call it a road merely for the sake of politeness—which +had been atrocious from the moment we +left the Fraser, quickly became worse. It was composed +of the decayed vegetable accumulations of centuries, +saturated with stagnant water, thus forming a very +sticky and very slippery material peculiar to British +Columbia, known as “muskeg.” Though it looks substantial<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_411"></a>[411]</span> +enough, with its top growth of stubble and +moss, it combines the most unpleasant qualities of +Virginia red clay, Irish peat-bog, Mexican adobe, and +New Orleans molasses. To make matters worse, a +drove of several hundred cattle had recently preceded +us, so that the road, which was inconceivably bad under +any circumstances, had been trampled into a black +morass which no vehicle could by any possibility get +through. There was only one thing for us to do and +that was to corduroy the road, or at least the worst +stretches of it. I have heard veterans of the Civil +War dwell on the difficulties of corduroying roads for +the guns to pass over in the swamps of the Chickahominy, +but I didn’t appreciate the truth of their +remarks until I tried it myself. While camping in +various parts of the world I had used an axe in a dilettante +sort of way for cutting tent-poles and chopping +fire-wood, but there is a vast deal of difference between +that sort of thing and cutting down enough trees to +pave a road. In an hour our hands were so blistered +that every movement of the axe helve brought excruciating +pain; but it was a question of corduroying that +road or else abandoning the car and making our way +to civilisation afoot through several hundred miles of +forest. There was no garage to telephone to for assistance. +At noon we paused long enough to light a fire +and cook a meal of sorts, which we ate seated on logs +amid a sea of slimy ooze, with rain pelting down and +swarms of voracious black flies and mosquitoes hovering +about us. Five hours more of tree felling and we<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_412"></a>[412]</span> +decided that our corduroy causeway was sufficiently +solid to get over it with the car. As a matter of fact, +we doubted it in our hearts, but we had reached that +stage of exhaustion and desperation where we didn’t +care what happened. If the car stuck in the mud, well +and good. She could stay there and take root and +sprout motor-cycles, so far as I was concerned. Backing +up so as to get a running start, our driver opened +wide his throttle and the car tore at the stretch of +home-made corduroy like a locomotive running amuck. +Under the terrific impact logs as large as a man’s +body were hurled a dozen feet away. The snapping of +the limbs and the deafening explosions of the engines +sounded like a battle in the Balkans. The car reeled +and swayed like a schooner in a squall, and every instant +I expected it to capsize; but our driver, clinging +desperately to the wheel, contrived, with a skill in +driving that I have never seen equalled, to keep it +from going over, and, in far less time than it takes to +tell it, we had traversed the morass we had spent an +entire day in corduroying, and the car, trembling like +a frightened horse, stood once again on solid ground. +The road over which we had passed looked as though +it had been struck by a combined hurricane, cyclone, +and tornado.</p> + +<p>It was nightfall when we reached the ranch owned +by a Swede named Peter Rasmussen. What the man +at Blackwater had described as “a swell place” consisted +of two small cabins and a group of log barns set +down in the middle of a forest clearing. No smoke<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_413"></a>[413]</span> +issued from the chimney, no dog barked a welcome, +there was not a sign of life about the place, and for a +few minutes we were assailed by the horrid fear that +no one was at home. Presently, however, we saw a +fair-haired, raw-boned Swede, an axe upon his shoulder, +emerge from the forest and come swinging toward us +across the pasture. I hailed him.</p> + +<p>“Are you Mr. Rasmussen?”</p> + +<p>“Ay ban reckon ay am.”</p> + +<p>“And can you put us up for the night?” I queried +anxiously.</p> + +<p>“Ay ban reckon ay can.”</p> + +<p>A stone’s throw from the one-roomed log cabin in +which Rasmussen and his single ranch-hand, a stolid +and uncommunicative Swede, slept and cooked and ate +and in the evenings read three-months-old papers by +the light of a guttering candle was the bunk house. +A bunk house, I might explain, is a building peculiar +to the frontier, usually consisting of one large room +with two, and sometimes three, tiers of bunks built +against the wall. Here travellers may find a roof to +shelter them and some hay on which to spread their +blankets, for in British Columbia every one carries his +bedding with him. From the musty odour which greeted +us when Rasmussen threw open the heavy door, this +particular bunk house had evidently not been occupied +for some time. When we tried to go to sleep, however, +we found that the bunks were very much occupied +indeed. But after Pete had started a roaring fire in +the little sheet-iron stove and when we had spread<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_414"></a>[414]</span> +our “five-point” Hudson Bay blankets on the five-cents-a-pound +hay which served in lieu of mattresses and +had scrubbed off some of the mud with which we were +veneered and had changed our wet clothes for dry ones, +the complexion of things began to change from brunette +to blonde. Between the intervals of corduroying the +road in the morning, I had shot with my revolver half +a dozen grouse that persisted in getting in our way. +They were almost as large as Plymouth Rocks and we +handed them over to Pete to pluck and cook for supper, +which was still further eked out by a mess of lake +trout brought in by his ranch hand. Up in that region +one may have considerable difficulty in obtaining the +every-day necessities, such as salt and butter and bread, +but he can surfeit himself on such luxuries as venison +and grouse and trout. We found that Rasmussen, +like so many other settlers in British Columbia, had +come from the American Northwest, lured by the +glowing prospectuses issued by the provincial government. +But he, like so many others, had found that +the appalling cost of living had made it impossible, +even with hay at a hundred dollars a ton, for him to +clear as much as he had in the United States. “So ay +ban tank ay go back an’ buy a farm in Minnesota,” he +concluded, knocking the ashes from his pipe. And +that’s precisely what a great many other discouraged +Americans in western Canada are going to do.</p> + +<p>For thirty miles or so after leaving Rasmussen’s +the road was rough, boggy, and exceedingly trying to +the disposition, but it gradually improved until by the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_415"></a>[415]</span> +time we reached Stony Creek we found ourselves +running along a short stretch of road of which a New +England board of supervisors need not have felt too +much ashamed. The terrible condition of the roads +throughout the interior of British Columbia is largely +due to the fact that they run for great distances through +dense forests where the sun cannot penetrate to dry +them up; this, taken with the abnormally heavy rains, +serving to make them one long and terrifying slough. +At Stony Creek there is a Siwash village consisting of +some twoscore log cabins clustered about a mission +church whose gaudy paint and bulging dome spoke +of its proximity to Alaska and the influence of the +Russians. The interior tribes are known as “stick +Indians,” referring, of course, to the fact that they +dwell in the forest, in contradistinction to those living +along the coast, who are known as “salt-chuck Indians.” +Squaws in vivid blankets and quill-embroidered +moccasins sat sewing and gossiping before their +cabin doors, just as womenfolk, be their skins white +or black or bronze, sit and gossip the whole world +over; bright-eyed, half-naked youngsters gambolled +like frisky puppies in the street; bearskins were +stretched on frames for drying, and at the rear of every +house was a cache for dried salmon, which forms the +Siwashes’ staple article of food. Though only one of +the braves, who had been out into civilisation, had +ever set eyes on a motor-car before, none of them seemed +to have any particular fear of it, although, strangely +enough, they became as shy as deer at sight of my<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_416"></a>[416]</span> +camera, one picturesque old squaw refusing consecutive +offers of twenty-five cents, fifty cents, and a dollar +to come out from behind the door where she was hiding +and let us take her picture. The old lady’s daughter +was willing enough to take a chance, however, for she +offered to pose for as many pictures as we desired if +we would give her a ride in the car, a proposal to which +I promptly acceded. I brought her down the stone-strewn +street of the village at a rattling clip, and she +not only never turned a hair but asked me to go faster. +Given an opportunity, that Siwash maiden would make +a real road burner.</p> + +<p>It is less than twenty miles from Stony Creek to +Fort Fraser and the road proved a surprisingly good +one. You must bear in mind, however, that when I +speak of a British Columbian road being a good one, +I am speaking comparatively. The best road we encountered +would, if it existed in the United States, +drive a board of highway commissioners out of office, +while the worst road we negotiated in a civilised community +wouldn’t be considered a road at all—it would +be used for a hog-wallow or for duck shooting. The +mushroom settlement of Fort Fraser takes its name +from the old Hudson Bay post, which is three miles +from the town on the shores of Fraser Lake. When we +were there the town consisted of half a hundred log +and frame buildings, a blacksmith shop, four or five +general stores, the branch of a Montreal bank, and the +only hotel in the four hundred miles between Quesnel +and Hazelton. It was a real frontier town when we<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_417"></a>[417]</span> +were there, and was of particular interest to us because +it represented a phase of civilisation which in our own +country has long since passed, but now that the railway +is in operation its picturesque log cabins will +doubtless be replaced by prosaic white frame houses +with green blinds, the boards laid along the edge of +the road will give way to cement sidewalks, and it will +have street lamps and a town hall and its name displayed +in a mosaic of whitewashed pebbles on the +station lawn and will look exactly like any one of a +hundred other towns scattered along the transcontinental +lines of railway. Some day, no doubt, I shall +pass through it again, this time from the observation +platform of a Pullman, and I shall remark quite nonchalantly +to my fellow travellers: “Oh, yes, I was up +here in the good old days when this was nothing but a +cluster of log huts at the Back of Beyond.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_418"></a>[418]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_419"></a>[419]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="XV">XV<br> +<span class="smaller">THE MAP THAT IS HALF UNROLLED</span></h2> + +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_420"></a>[420]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_421"></a>[421]</span></p> + +<h3>XV<br> +<span class="smaller">THE MAP THAT IS HALF UNROLLED</span></h3> + +</div> + +<p>It wasn’t much of a chain as chains go—it really +wasn’t. After a good deal of poking about I had +come upon its dozen feet of rusted links thrown carelessly +behind the forge in the only blacksmith shop in +Fort Fraser. Now, I had an imperative need for a +chain of some sort, for our skid chains, as the result of +the wear and tear to which they had been subjected on +the journey from Quesnel, were on the point of giving +out, and it is not wise to attempt to negotiate what +the settlers of northern British Columbia, with an +appalling disregard for the truth, call roads unless you +have taken all possible precautions against skidding. +Up in that country of two-mile-high mountains, and +mountain roads as slippery as the inside of a banana +peel, a side-slip of only a few inches is as likely as not +to send car and occupants hurtling through half a mile +of emptiness. As the chain would answer our purpose +after a fashion, and as we could get nothing better, I +told the smith to throw it in the car. After he had +attended to a few minor repairs I asked him how much +I owed him.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he answered, figuring with his pencil on +a chip of wood, “the chain comes to sixteen dollars an’ +forty cents, an——”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_422"></a>[422]</span></p> + +<p>“Hold on!” I interrupted. “Please say that over +again. It must be that I’m getting hard of hearing.”</p> + +<p>“Sixteen dollars and forty cents for the chain,” +he repeated, unabashed.</p> + +<p>I leaned against the door of the log smithy for +support. “Not for the chain?” I gasped unbelievingly. +“Not for twelve feet of rusty, second-hand, five-eighths-inch +chain that I could get for half a dollar almost +anywhere?”</p> + +<p>“Sure,” said he. “An’ I ain’t makin’ no profit +on it at that. The freight charges for bringin’ it in +from the coast were eighteen cents a pound. But +lookee here, friend, I don’t want you to go away from +Fort Fraser with the idee in your head that things +up here is high-priced, ’cause they ain’t. I wanta do +the right thing by you. I’ll tell you what I’ll do—<i>I’ll +knock off the forty cents</i>.”</p> + +<p class="tb">Despite the assurances of the blacksmith, by no +stretch of the imagination could Fort Fraser be called +a poor man’s town. Some of the prices which were +asked—and which we paid—in the local store where +we replenished our supply of provisions were as follows:</p> + +<table> + <tr> + <td>Flour</td> + <td class="tdpg">16 cents per pound</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Sugar</td> + <td class="tdpg">25 cents per pound</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Tea and coffee</td> + <td class="tdpg">$1.00 per pound</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Butter</td> + <td class="tdpg">75 cents per pound</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Oatmeal</td> + <td class="tdpg">30 cents per pound</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Dried fruits</td> + <td class="tdpg">25 cents per pound</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Tinned fruits</td> + <td class="tdpg">75 cents to $1.00 per 2-pound tin</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Bacon</td> + <td class="tdpg">50 cents per pound<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_423"></a>[423]</span></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Eggs (when procurable)</td> + <td class="tdpg">$1.50 per dozen</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td colspan="2" class="tdc">(In winter they sell for 50 cents each.)</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Potted meats</td> + <td class="tdpg">50 cents to $1.00 per tin</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Bread</td> + <td class="tdpg">25 cents per 1-pound loaf</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td colspan="2" class="tdc">(Farther in the interior 50 cents per loaf + is the standard price.)</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Potatoes</td> + <td class="tdpg">$3.00 per bushel</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td>Chickens</td> + <td class="tdpg">$4.00 each</td> + </tr> +</table> + +<p>It was my introduction to a scale of frontier prices to +which I soon became accustomed though not reconciled. +It is only fair to say, however, that this was +before the completion of the railway. Now that Fort +Fraser is a station on a transcontinental system, the +cost of living has doubtless been materially reduced, +though I have no doubt that the scale of prices just +quoted still obtains and will for a very long time to +come in the settlements to the north of the Skeena.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus44" style="max-width: 50em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus44.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><table><tr> + <td class="td3"><p>A Siwash lady going shopping.</p></td> + <td class="td3"><p>Half-breeds of the Upper Skeena.</p></td> + <td class="td3"><p>“Blackwater Kate.”</p></td> + </tr></table> + <p>SOME LADIES FROM THE UPPER SKEENA.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>The population of Fort Fraser turned out <i>en masse</i> +to see us off, the mothers—there were only eight white +women in the town when we were there—bringing +their children to the cabin doors to see their first motor-car. +Did you ever stop to think of the deprivations +suffered by these women who dwell along “the edge of +things”: no soda-water fountains, no afternoon teas, +no bargain sales, no moving-picture shows, and the +fashion papers usually six months late? It must be +terrible.</p> + +<p>We felt quite gay and light-hearted that morning, +I remember, for we had slept in beds instead of vermin-infested +bunks or in blankets beside the road, we had +breakfasted on coffee, eggs, and porridge instead of the +customary chicory, “sow-belly,” and prunes, and a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_424"></a>[424]</span> +feeble sun was doing its best to dry up the rain-soaked +roads. Three miles out of Fort Fraser the swollen +Nechako lay athwart our path and our troubles once +more began, for the ferry was not built to carry three-ton +motor-cars, or, indeed, any motor-cars at all, and +when it felt the sudden weight of the big machine upon +its deck it dipped so alarmingly that for a moment it +looked as though the car would end its journey at +the bottom of the river. Barring numerous short +stretches where the treacherous black mud was up to +our hubs, several miles of bone-racking corduroy, two +torrential showers, any number of stumps which +threatened to rip off our pan and had to be levelled +before we could pass, two punctures, a blowout, and a +broken spring, the journey from the banks of the Nechako +to Burns Lake was uneventful.</p> + +<p>Darkness had long since fallen when we zigzagged +down the precipitous flank of a forest-clothed mountain, +and the beams from our head lamps illumined the +cluster of tents, shacks, and cabins which compose the +settlement known as Burns Lake. Though the settlement +boasted at the time we were there the population +of a fair-sized village, notwithstanding the +fact that there was not a woman or a child in it, it was +nothing more than a railway-construction camp, with +its usual concomitants of hash houses, bunk houses, +and gambling dens. With the completion of the railway +it has doubtless disappeared as suddenly as it +arose. Upon inquiring for sleeping quarters, we were +taken up a creaking ladder into a loft above an eating-house,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_425"></a>[425]</span> +where fully twoscore labourers from the south +of Europe lay stretched on their backs on piles of +filthy straw, snoring or scratching or tossing, in an +atmosphere so dense with the mingled odours of garlic, +fried pork, wet leather, and perspiration that it could +have been removed with a shovel. While we were +debating as to whether we should look for less impossible +quarters or wrap up in our blankets and spend the +night in the car, an American, who, from his air of authority, +I gathered to be a foreman, addressed us:</p> + +<p>“There’s no place here that’s fit to sleep in,” he +said, “but I understand that one of the contracting +company’s barges is leaving for Decker Lake at midnight. +She’s empty, so they’d probably be willing to +carry you and your car. You’d have to sleep in the +car, of course, and it’s pretty cold on the water at this +time of the year, but, believe me, it’ll be a heap more +comfortable than spending the night in one of these +bunk houses. There’s no road around the lake anyway, +so you’ll have to go by water if you go at all.”</p> + +<p>Thanking him for his suggestion, we set out in +quest of the manager of the contracting company, +whom we found in a log cabin at the entrance to the +roughly constructed wharf. It took but a few words +to explain our errand and complete arrangements for +being transported down the lakes by the barge which +was leaving at midnight. Burns and Decker Lakes, +which are each approximately ten miles in length and +whose shores are lined with almost impenetrable forest, +are connected by a shallow and tortuous channel which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_426"></a>[426]</span> +winds its devious course through a wilderness of +swamps, lagoons, and bulrushes known as the Drowned +Lands. The firm of Spokane contractors engaged in +the construction of the western division of the Grand +Trunk Pacific had availed itself of this devious waterway +for transporting its men, materials, and supplies +to the front, using for the purpose flat-bottomed +barges drawing only a few inches of water. Notwithstanding +the fact that the pilots frequently lost their +way at night and the barges went aground in the +shallow channel, the fortunate circumstance of the +two lakes being thus connected had saved the company +tens of thousands of dollars.</p> + +<p>It will be a long time, a very long time, before my +recollection of that night journey down those dark and +lonely lakes will fade. The deck of the barge was but +a few inches wider than the car, so that, as we sat in +our accustomed seats, wrapped to the eyes in blankets, +it seemed as though the car were floating on the surface +of the water. The little gasoline engine that supplied +the barge’s motive power was aft of us, and its +steady throb, together with the twin swaths of light +which our lamps mowed out of the darkness, put the +final touch to the illusion. It was an eerie sensation—very. +Though a crescent moon shone fitfully through +scudding clouds, its feeble light but served to emphasise +the darkness and mystery of the forest-covered shores, +which were as black as the grave and as silent as the +dead. Once some heavy animal—a bear, no doubt—went +crashing through the underbrush with a noise<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_427"></a>[427]</span> +that was positively startling in that uncanny stillness. +By the time we reached the shallow channel that +winds its devious course through the Drowned Lands +the moon had disappeared and a thick white fog had +fallen on everything, hiding the shores with its impalpable +curtain and completely nullifying the effect of +our powerful lights. The only sound was the laboured +panting of the engine and the scraping of the bulrushes +against the bow. How the skipper found his +way through that fog-bound channel I can’t imagine, +unless he smelt it, for he couldn’t see an object five +feet away. Day was breaking above the eastern forest +when the barge crunched against the timbers of the +wharf at Decker Lake, and I breathed a little prayer +of thanksgiving for our safe arrival; for, truth to tell, +I had fully expected that the light of morning would +find us hard and fast aground in the middle of a swamp. +Word of our coming had preceded us and we found that +the company’s local manager—an American—had cots +and blankets awaiting us in the log shanty that served +him as an office. We were shivering with the cold and +heavy-eyed from weariness. My word, how we slept! +I can’t remember when I have so enjoyed a pillow.</p> + +<p>Before leaving Decker Lake we acquired an addition +to our party. His name was Duncan and he was +an axeman from the forests of Quebec. He had the +shoulders of a Clydesdale, the sinews of a mule, and +could handle an axe as an artist handles a brush. One +of those restless spirits who, with their worldly possessions +on their backs, are here to-day and gone to-morrow,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_428"></a>[428]</span> +he had worked on the railway grade just long +enough to earn a little money and, when we arrived, +was setting out on foot for New Hazelton, two hundred +miles away, to spend it. He was only too glad to work +his passage and we were only too glad to have him +along—he was so extremely capable that his presence +gave us a feeling of reassurance. It was well that we +took him along, for before we had left Decker Lake an +hour behind us we found ourselves at the beginning of +as ugly a stretch of road as I ever expect to set eyes on.</p> + +<p>“That’s not a road,” said my companion disgustedly, +as he stood looking at the sea of slime. +“That’s a lake, and if we once get into it we’ll never see +the car again.”</p> + +<p>What he said was so obviously true that we decided +that the only thing to do was to avoid the road +altogether and chop our way around it. This involved +cutting a path through three quarters of a mile of primeval +forest and the removal of scores of trees. There +was nothing to be gained by groaning over the prospect, +so we rolled up our sleeves, spat on our lacerated palms, +and went at it with the axes. Did you ever see an expert +woodsman in action? No? Well, it’s a sight +worth seeing, take my word for it. Duncan would +walk up to a forest giant that looked as big as the +Tower of Pisa and slam-bang into it with his double-bitted +axe, amid a perfect shower of chips, until he had +chopped a hole in the base the size of a hotel fireplace. +A few more strokes at the right spot, a warning shout +of “Timber!” “Timber!” and the great tree would<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_429"></a>[429]</span> +come crashing down within a hand’s breadth of where +he wanted it. A few minutes more of the axe business +and the prone trunk would be cut into sections and +rolled away. “She’s all jake, boys,” Duncan would +bellow, and, putting on the power, we would push the +car a few yards more ahead. It took the four of us +eight hours of steady chopping to make our way around +that awful stretch of road, but we did get through +finally with no more serious mishap than crumpling +up one of the forward fenders, caused by the car swerving +into a tree. While we were still congratulating ourselves +on having gotten out of the woods in more senses +than one, we swung around a bend in the road and came +to a sudden halt before a hog-wallow which stretched +away, like a black and slimy serpent, as far as the eye +could see.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus45" style="max-width: 29.6875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus45.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>After the car had passed: a stretch of road + south of the Nechako.</p> + <p>Mired in muskeg on the Yukon Telegraph Trail.</p> + <p>Prying the car out of a swamp in the Blackwater country.</p> + <p>WHERE NO MOTOR-CAR HAD EVER GONE: SOME INCIDENTS OF MR. POWELL’S JOURNEY + THROUGH THE BRITISH COLUMBIAN WILDERNESS.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>“We’re up against it good and hard this time,” +said our driver, grown pessimistic for the first and only +time. “I don’t believe the car can make it. There’s too +much of it and it’s too deep—the wheels simply can’t +get traction.”</p> + +<p>As we were contemplating it in dismal silence we +heard the welcome rattle of wheels and clink of harness, +and an empty freight wagon, drawn by eight +sturdy mules, pulled out of the forest behind us, the +bearded “mule-skinner” urging on his beasts with +cracking whip and a crackle of oaths. I waded toward +him through the mire.</p> + +<p>“Where’s the nearest place that we can eat and +sleep?” I demanded.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_430"></a>[430]</span></p> + +<p>“Waal,” he drawled with exasperating slowness, +“I reckon’s how they mought fix ye up fer the night at +th’ Hunderd an’ Fifty Mile House. Thet’s the only +place I knows on, an’ it’s darned poor, too.”</p> + +<p>“How far is it from here?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“Waal, I calkilate it mought be a matter o’ two +mile an’ a half or three mile.”</p> + +<p>“Good,” said I, “and what will you charge to haul +us there? We can’t get through this mud-hole alone, +but the car’s got lots of power and with the help of +your mules we ought to make it all right.”</p> + +<p>Instantly the man’s native shrewdness asserted +itself. He cast an appraising eye over my mud-stained +garments, over the mud-bespattered car and at the +yawning sea of mud ahead.</p> + +<p>“I’ll haul ye to th’ Hunderd an’ Fifty Mile House +for fifteen dollars,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Fifteen dollars for a two-and-a-half-mile haul?” +I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“Take it or leave it,” said the teamster rudely. +“I ain’t got no time to stand in the road bargainin’.”</p> + +<p>I promptly capitulated, for I had no intention of +letting our only hope of rescue get away. “Hitch on to +the car,” said I.</p> + +<p>That was where the sixteen-dollar-and-forty-cent +chain to which I referred at the beginning of this story +came in handy, for we had no rope that would have +stood the strain of hauling that car through those three +<i>perfectly awful</i> miles. Night was tucking up the land +in a black and sodden blanket when the driver pulled<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_431"></a>[431]</span> +up his weary mules at the roadside post bearing the +numerals “150,” which signified that we were still a +hundred and fifty miles from our journey’s end, and I +counted into his grimy paw the sum agreed upon in the +greasy bank-notes of the realm. <i>It had taken us just +eleven hours to make fourteen miles.</i></p> + +<p>Though we had not deluded ourselves into expecting +that we would find anything but the most primitive +accommodation at the 150 Mile House, we were none +of us, unless it might have been Duncan, prepared for +the wholly impossible quarters that greeted us. Standing +in a clearing in the wilderness was a log cabin containing +but a single room, in one corner of which was a +stove and in the other a rickety table piled high with +unwashed dishes. Such space as was left in the twelve-by-fourteen +room was occupied by a huge home-made +bed which provided sleeping quarters for the English +rancher, his gaunt, starved-looking wife, and a veritable +litter of small children.</p> + +<p>“We’ve nothing here that ’ud do for the likes of +you, sir,” said the man civilly, in reply to my request +for accommodations. “The missis can fix you up a +meal, but there’s not a place that you could lay your +heads, unless ’twould be in the loft.”</p> + +<p>“Good Heavens, man!” interrupted my companion, +“We can’t sleep out-of-doors on such a night as +this. Let’s see the loft.”</p> + +<p>Assuring us once more that “it was no place for +the likes of us,” the rancher pointed to a ladder made of +saplings which poked its nose through a black square<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_432"></a>[432]</span> +in the ceiling directly above the family couch. Taking +a candle from the woman I ascended. The fitful light +illuminated a space formed by the ceiling of the room +below and the steeply pitched roof of the cabin, barely +large enough for a man to enter on his hands and knees. +Its uneven floor, made of saplings, laid lengthwise, was +strewn with musty hay, upon which were thrown some +tattered pieces of filthy burlap bagging. One of these +pieces of bedding seemed to move, but upon looking +at it more closely I saw it was fairly aswarm with +vermin. I took one glance and scrambled down the +ladder. “Where’s the nearest ditch?” I asked. “I’d +rather sleep in a ditch any time than in that loft.”</p> + +<p>But we did not have to do either, for Duncan, who +had previous acquaintance of the place, wasting no +time in lamentation, had set to work with his axe and +in ten minutes a great fire was sending its hail of sparks +into the evening sky. It’s marvellous what wonders +can be worked in the wilderness with a sharp axe by a +man who knows how to handle it. By stretching the +piece of sail-cloth we had with us between two convenient +trees and keeping it in place with saplings, in an +amazingly brief time Duncan had constructed a shelter +which was proof against any but a driving rain, and +which, thanks to the camp-fire blazing in front of it, +was as warm as a steam-heated room in a hotel. Covering +the soggy ground with a layer of hemlock branches, +and this in turn with a layer of hay bought from the +rancher at five cents per pound, and spreading on top +of the hay our rubber sheets and our blankets—behold,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_433"></a>[433]</span> +we were as comfortable as kings; more comfortable, +I fancy, than certain monarchs in the Balkans. +We lay side by side beneath the flimsy shelter like sardines +in a tin, while outside the rain fell drearily and +the night wind soughed in the tree tops, and the flickering +flames of the camp-fire alternately illumined and +left in darkness everything.</p> + +<p>We awoke the next morning to find that the sun, +which is an infrequent visitor to northern British Columbia +in the autumn, had tardily come to our assistance +and was trying to make up for its remissness by a desperate +attempt to dry up the roads which, for the succeeding +hundred miles or so, lay across an open, rolling +country bordered by distant ranges of snow-capped +mountains. Though the recollection of that day +stands out sharp and clear in my memory as the only +one since leaving Quesnel when we were not delayed +by mud, our progress was hampered by something +much more inimical to the car—stumps. When the +road was constructed it evidently never entered into +the calculations of its builders that it would be used +by a motor-car, so they sawed off the trees which occupied +the route at a height which would permit of their +stumps being cleared without difficulty by the axles +of the high-wheeled freight wagons, but which, had +they been struck by the automobile, would have torn +the pan from the body and put it permanently out of +business. Along the stump-strewn stretches, therefore, +our progress was necessarily slow, for Duncan marched +in advance, axe on shoulder, like a scout before an advancing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_434"></a>[434]</span> +army, and whenever he found an enemy in the +form of a stump lying in wait to disable us he would +destroy it with a few well-directed blows of his axe. +But it was a tiresome business. After a time, however, +the stump-dotted trail was supplanted by quite an excellent +road of gravel, and down this we spun for thirty +miles with nothing to interrupt our progress. When +we started that morning we would have laughed derisively +if any one had told us that we could make Aldermere +that night, but, thanks to the unexpected blessing +of good roads, we whirled into that little frontier village +at five o’clock in the afternoon, ascertained from +the open-mouthed loungers on the steps of the grocery +store that it was only thirty miles to Moricetown, +which was at that time the “end of steel,” and determined +to push on that night. The good roads soon +died a sudden death, however, and it was late that +night before there twinkled in the blackness of the +valley below us the bewildering arrangement of green +and scarlet lights which denote a railway yard all the +world over, and heard the familiar friendly shriek of +a locomotive.</p> + +<p>I don’t care to dwell on the night we spent at +Moricetown. The recollection is not a pleasant one. +In a few years, no doubt, it will grow into a prosperous +country village, with cement sidewalks and street +lamps and rows of neat cottages, but when we were +there it was simply the “end of steel.” In other words, +it was the place where civilisation, as typified by the +railway in operation between there and the coast, quit<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_435"></a>[435]</span> +work and the wilderness began. The “town” consisted +of the railway station, still smelling of yellow paint, +two or three log cabins, a group of hybrid structures, +half house, half tent, and another building which, if +one had no regard whatever for veracity, might have +been called a hotel. Let me tell you about it. It was +built of scantlings covered with log slabs, and the partition +walls consisted of nothing thicker than tarred +paper. In certain respects this had its advantages, for +if you needed more light or air in your room all you +had to do was to poke your finger through the wall. +Because we had arrived by automobile and were therefore +fair game, we were given the <i>suite de luxe</i>. This +consisted of a six-by-eight room containing an iron bed +with a dubious-looking coverlet which had evidently +passed through every possible experience save a washing. +There being no place in the room for a wash-stand, +the cracked wash-bowl was kept under the bed. +Indeed, had not the door opened outward we could +never have gotten into the room at all. The partitions +were so flimsy that we were awakened every time the +occupant of the next room changed his mind. Outside +our door was what, for want of a better term, I +will call the lobby: a low-ceilinged room warmed to +the suffocating point by a huge whitewashed stove, +around which those who could not get rooms sat through +the night on rude benches, talking, whispering, cursing, +snoring, spitting, coughing, smoking. The place was +blue with the acrid fumes of Bull Durham. Dozing +on the benches were all the types peculiar to this remote<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_436"></a>[436]</span> +corner of the empire: Montenegrin and Croatian railway +labourers, stolid and dirty; Canadian lumberjacks +in their moccasins and hooded parkas; Scandinavian +ranchers from the back country; a group of immigrants, +fresh from England, their faces whitened by the confinement +of the long journey, who had left their rented +farms in Sussex or their stools in London counting-houses +to come out to the colonies to earn a living; +even some pallid women with squalling children in +their arms, fretful from lack of sleep, who had come +from the old country to join their husbands and lead +pioneer lives in the British Columbian wild. The men +snored sickeningly, the tired mothers scolded their +crying children, the clouds of tobacco smoke eddied +toward the ceiling, the army of insects that we found +in possession of the bed attacked us from all directions, +the rain pattered dishearteningly upon the tin roof, the +air was heavy with the odours of grimy, sweat-soaked, +tired humanity. It was a <i>nuit du diable</i>, as our Paris +friends would say.</p> + +<p>It is only about five-and-twenty miles from Moricetown +to New Hazelton, the prefix “new” distinguishing +it from the “old town,” which lies five miles +from the railway to the north. The road, so we were +told, though slippery after the rains and very hilly, +was moderately smooth, and we were as confident that +we would eat our Sunday dinner in New Hazelton as we +were that the next day was Monday. But the best-laid +plans of mice and motorists, you know, “gang aft agley,” +which, according to the glossary of Scottish phrases<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_437"></a>[437]</span> +in the back of the dictionary, means “to go off to the +side,” and that was precisely what we did, for when +only five miles from our destination our driver, in his +eagerness to taste civilised cooking again, took a slippery +curve at incautious speed and the car skidded over +into the ditch and reclined against the shelving bank +like some mud-stained, weary monster. It took the +better part of an hour to get out the jacks and build +a causeway of stones and pry her up. But at last +everything was ready and we shouted to the driver to +throw on the power. But there was no response from +the engines to his pressure on the throttle.</p> + +<p>“By Jove!” he muttered despondently. “We’re +out of gasoline!”</p> + +<p>Sunday noon, a deserted mountain road, a ditched +and helpless car, a sky leaden with impending rain—and +only five miles from our destination. There was +nothing for it but for some one to walk into New Hazelton, +rouse the local storekeeper from his Sunday nap, +and bring us a tin of gasoline. The choice unanimously +fell on Duncan, who set off down the middle of the +muddy road at a four-miles-an-hour pace. Meanwhile, +we set about preparations for our Sunday dinner. +While the driver skirmished about with an axe in +search of wood that was not too rain-soaked to burn, +my friend opened such of the tinned goods as were left, +and I attempted to wash the knives and forks and tin +plates in a convenient mud puddle. As we had neglected +to clean them after our last meal in the open, +on the ground that we would have no further use for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_438"></a>[438]</span> +them, the task I had set myself was not an easy one: +it’s surprising how difficult it is to remove grease from +tin with nothing but a stick and some cold water. We +achieved a meal at last, however—tinned sausages, +tinned spaghetti, mouldy bread made palatable by +toasting, and some week-old coffee which we found in +one of the thermos bottles and heated—and I’ve had +many a worse meal, too. Just as the rain began to +descend in earnest, a horse and sulky swung round the +bend bearing Duncan and the precious tin of gasoline. +Thirty minutes later we were rolling between a double +line of welcoming townspeople down the muddy main +street of New Hazelton. We were at our journey’s end!</p> + +<p>Though New Hazelton now boasts the most pretentious +hotel in all the North country, when we were +there this hostelry was still in course of construction, +so we were compelled to look elsewhere for bed and +board. After some searching we found accommodation +in the cabin occupied by the operator of the Yukon +Telegraph and ate our meals at the pie counter run by +an American known as “Black Jack” Macdonald. +And it was good eating, too. Our first question after +reaching New Hazelton was, of course:</p> + +<p>“Is there any chance of our getting through to +the Alaskan border?”</p> + +<p>“Not a chance in the world,” was the chorused +answer. But we protested that that was the answer +we had received at Vancouver and Ashcroft and +Quesnel and Fort Fraser when we inquired as to the +chances of getting through to Hazelton.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_439"></a>[439]</span></p> + +<p>“The boys are quite right, gentlemen,” said a +bearded frontiersman named “Dutch” Cline. “There +isn’t a chance in the world. I’ve lived in this country +close on twenty years and I know what I’m talking +about. It’s only about forty miles in an air-line from +here to the Alaskan boundary, but I doubt if a pack-mule +could get through, let alone a motor-car. You +would have to actually chop your way through forests +that haven’t so much as a trail. You would have to devise +some way of getting your car across no less than a +dozen dangerous rivers. You would have to climb to +the very summit of a six-thousand-foot mountain +range and then drop down on the other side; and, +finally, you would have to find some means of crossing +the Portland Canal, which separates British Columbia +from Alaska. Add to that the fact that winter is at +hand and that you would probably be snowed in before +you had got a quarter of the way, and you will understand +just how utterly impossible it is.”</p> + +<p>So we were forced to abandon regretfully the hope +of hearing the Alaskan gravel crunch beneath our +tires and to content ourselves with the knowledge that +we had driven farther north than a motor-car had +ever been driven on this continent before: farther +north than the Aleutian Islands, farther north than +Hudson Bay, farther north than the Peninsula of +Kamchatka, half a hundred miles farther north, in +fact, than the southern boundary of Alaska itself.</p> + +<p>New Hazelton is in the very heart of northern +British Columbia, where the Skeena, the Babine, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_440"></a>[440]</span> +the Bulkley meet, and in the same latitude as the lower +end of the Alaskan panhandle.</p> + +<p>A collection of log cabins and weather-beaten +shacks huddled on the river bank at the foot of the +Rocher de Boulé, whose cloud-wreathed summit, seven +thousand feet in height, seems to scrape the sky, it is +one of those boom towns with which the pioneer business +men of the region are shaking dice against fate. +If they lose, the place will revert to the primeval +wilderness from which it sprang; if they win—and the +coming of the railway has made it all but certain that +they will—they will have laid the foundation of a +future Winnipeg or Vancouver. Save only in Constantinople +during the stirring days which marked +the end of the Hamidieh régime, and at Casablanca +with the Foreign Legion, I do not recall ever having +encountered so many strange and picturesque and +interesting figures as I did in this log town on the +ragged edge of things. Every evening after supper +the men would come dropping into the hut by twos +and threes until there were a dozen or more gathered +in a circle about the whitewashed stove and the air +was so thick with the fumes of Bull Durham that you +could have cut it with a knife. Talk about the Arabian +Nights! Those were the British Columbian +Nights, and if the Caliph of Bagdad had sat in that +circle of frontiersmen and listened to the tales that +passed round with the black bottle in that cabin on +the banks of the Skeena he would have beheaded +Scherezade in disgust. Here, in the flesh, were the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_441"></a>[441]</span> +characters of which the novelists love to write: men +whom the wanderlust had lured from the Morris +chairs of ease; men who had gone the pace in England +long ago; men who had left their country between two +days and for their country’s good; men who, in clubs or +regimental messes, had been caught with an ace too +many; men who, on nameless rivers or in strange +valleys, had played knuckle down with Death.</p> + +<p>The talk fest of anecdote and reminiscence would +generally be opened by “Dutch” Cline, a hairy, iron-hard +pioneer who would have delighted the heart of +Remington. I remember that the first time I met +him he remarked that there would be an early winter, +and when I asked him how he knew he explained quite +soberly it was because he was afflicted with an uncontrollable +desire to steal a dog. Cline was a Boer by +birth—hence his nickname of “Dutch”—and in his +youth had fought in turn the Zulus, the Basutos, and +the Matabele, having, as he expressed it, lived on +the frontier ever since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. +He was a born raconteur and would hold us +spellbound as he yarned of the days when he sailed +under Captain Hansen, “the Flying Dutchman,” and +poached for seals off the Pribilofs. Hansen, who was +a Dane, evolved the ingenious idea of having a ship +built in Japan but owned by Americans and sailing +under the British flag, so that when he was overhauled +by a gunboat, whether American, British, Japanese, +or Russian, and arrested for pelagic sealing, it stirred +up such an international rumpus with all the other<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_442"></a>[442]</span> +nations concerned that it was easier to let him go. +He once gave his vessel a coat of the grey-green paint +used on the Czar’s warships, uniformed his crew as +Russian sailors, and, with guns of stovepipe frowning +from his decks and the flag of Saint Andrew flaunting +from his stern, bore majestically down on the sealing +grounds, and when his unsuspecting rivals cut their +cables and fled seaward he helped himself to the skins. +Though a pirate and an outlaw whose hands were stained +with blood, he met his death not on deep water, as he +would have wished, but in a little harbour at the north +end of Vancouver Island while trying to save a little +child. I remember that “Dutch” wiped his eyes as he +told the story, and no one smiled at his doing it, either; +for, though these men of the North have the hearts of +vikings, they likewise often have the tenderness of a +woman.</p> + +<p>Then there was Bob MacDonald, a red-headed +man-o’-war’s man who had served under Dewey +at the taking of the Philippines and later on had been +a steam-shovel man at Panama. He needed no urging +to reel off tales of mad pranks and wild adventures on +every seaboard of the world, but when the deed for +which he had been recommended for the Carnegie +medal was mentioned his face would turn as fiery as +his hair. So, as he could never be induced to tell the +story, some one, to his intense embarrassment, would +insist on telling it for him. While prospecting in that +remote and barren region which borders on the Great +Slave Lake his only companion had gone suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_443"></a>[443]</span> +insane. MacDonald bound the raging madman hand +and foot, placed him in a canoe which he built of whip-sawed +planks, and brought him down a thousand miles +of unexplored and supposedly unnavigable rivers, +sometimes dragging his flimsy craft across mile-long +portages, sometimes hoisting it, inch by inch, foot by +foot, over rocky walls half a thousand feet in height, +sometimes running cataracts and rapids where his life +hung on the twist of a paddle, living on wild berries +and such game as he could kill along the way, but +always caring for the gibbering maniac as tenderly as +though he were a child. He reached New Hazelton +and its hospital with his charge at last, after one of +the most intrepid journeys ever made by a white man—and +the next day his comrade died. Yet when I +exclaimed over his heroism, MacDonald was genuinely +abashed. “Hell,” he blurted, “what else was there +for me to do? You wouldn’t have had me go off and +leave him up there to die, would you? You’d do the +same thing if your pal was took sick on the trail. Sure +you would.”</p> + +<p>When his instrument would cease its chatter for +a time, the telegraph operator would chip in with +stories of the men who sit in those lonely cabins scattered +along two thousand miles of copper wire and +relay the news of the world to the miners of the Yukon. +In hair-raising detail he told of that terrible winter +when the pack-train with its supplies was lost and the +snow-bound operators had to keep themselves alive +for many months upon such scanty game as they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_444"></a>[444]</span> +could find in the frozen forests. He told of the insufferable +loneliness that drives men raving mad, of the +awful silence that seems to crush one down. He told, +with the thrill in the voice that comes only from +actual experience, of how men run from their own +shadows and become frightened at the sound of their +own voices; of how each succeeding day is the intolerable +same, only a little worse, the messages that come +faintly over the line being the sole relief from the +awful feeling that you are the only person left on all +the earth.</p> + +<p>Occasionally Eugene Caux, or Old Man Cataline +as he is invariably called because of his Catalonian +origin, would join our conversazione. His ninety odd +years notwithstanding, he is a magnificent figure of a +man, six feet four in his elk-hide moccasins, with a +chest like a barrel, his mop of snowy hair in striking +contrast to a skin which has been tanned by sun and +wind to the rich, ripe colour of a well-smoked meerschaum. +Cataline is the most noted packer in the +whole North country, being, in fact, the owner of the +last great pack-train north of the Rio Grande. So +much of his life has been spent in the wild, with Indian +packers and French-Canadian trappers for his only +companions, that his speech has become a strange +mélange of English, French, half a dozen Indian dialects, +and some remnants of his native Spanish, the +whole thickly spiced with oaths. When, upon his +periodic visits to the settlements, he is compelled to +sleep under a roof, he strips the bed of its blankets and,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_445"></a>[445]</span> +wrapping himself in them, spends the night in comfort +on the floor, his cocked revolver next his leg so that he +can shoot through the coverings in case a marauder +should appear. It is a custom among those who know +him to invariably offer him a drink for the sake of +enjoying the unique performance that ensues. His +invariable brand of “hooch” is Hudson Bay rum, +strong enough to eat the lining from a copper boiler. +“Salue, señores!” says the old Spaniard, and drains +half his glass at a single gulp. But he does not drink +the other half. Instead, he pours it slowly over his +mop of tousled hair and carefully rubs it in. It is a +strange performance.</p> + +<p>They tell with relish in the northern camps the +story of how Old Man Cataline, summoned to appear +before the court sitting at Quesnel to defend the title +to some land that he had filed a claim on, strode into +the crowded court-room in the midst of a trial, and, +shoving aside the bailiffs, menacingly confronted the +startled judge. “Je worka pour that land, señor!” +he thundered, shaking his fist and his whole frame +trembling with passion. “Je payez pour heem, mister! +He belonga to moi! Je killa any one who try tak heem +away! Oui, by God, je killa you, m’sieu!” and, +drawing a hunting-knife from his belt, he drove its +blade deep into the top of the judge’s table. Leaving +this grim memento quivering in the wood, Cataline +turned upon his heel and strode away. He was not +molested.</p> + +<p>When the world was electrified by the news that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_446"></a>[446]</span> +gold had been discovered on the Yukon, the authorities +at Ottawa, anticipating the stampede of the +lawless and the desperate that ensued, rushed a body +of troops to the scene for the preservation of law and +order. To Old Man Cataline was intrusted the task +of transporting the several hundred soldiers and their +supplies overland to the gold-fields by pack-train. +The officer in command was a pompous person, fresh +from the Eastern provinces and much impressed with +his own importance, who insisted that the routine of +barrack life should be rigidly observed upon the long +and tedious march through the wilderness, the men +rising and eating and going to bed by bugle-call. +The absurdity of this proceeding aroused the contempt +of Cataline, who would snort disgustedly: “Pour cinquante, +soixante year I live in the grand forêt. Je +connais when it ees time to get up. Je connais when I +am hongry. Je connais when I am tired. But now it +ees blowa de bug’ to get up; blowa de bug’ to eat; +blowa de damned bug’ to sleep. Nom d’un nom d’un +nom du chien! What t’ell for?” Within twenty-four +hours Cataline and the commanding officer were not +on speaking terms. But the expedition continued to +press steadily forward, the commander riding at the +head of the mile-long string of soldiers on mule back, +and Cataline bringing up the rear. One day a heavily +laden pack-mule became mired in a marsh and, +despite the orders of the officer and the efforts of the +soldiers, could not be extricated. As they were standing +in deep perplexity about the helpless animal<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_447"></a>[447]</span> +Cataline came riding up from the rear. Pulling up +his mule, he sat quietly in his saddle without volunteering +any advice. At last the officer, at his wit’s +end, pocketed his pride.</p> + +<p>“How would you suggest that we get this mule +out, Mr. Cataline?” he asked politely.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” remarked the old frontiersman drily, “blowa +de bug’.”</p> + +<p>Nor will I readily forget Michael Flaherty, a +genial Irish section boss on the Grand Trunk Pacific, +whose effervescent Celtic wit formed a grateful relief +to the grim stories of hardship and suffering. He had +a front tooth conveniently missing, I remember, and one +of his chief delights was to lean back in his chair and +write patriotic “G. R.’s” and “U. S. A.’s” in squirts +of tobacco juice upon the ceiling. One day he ordered +out his hand-car in a hurry.</p> + +<p>“And where moight yez be goin’, Misther Flaherty?” +solicitously inquired his assistant.</p> + +<p>“To hell wid yer questions,” was the answer. +“Did Napoleon always be tellin’ his min where he was +goin’?”</p> + +<p class="tb">The Indians of British Columbia, doubtless because +of their remoteness from civilisation, have retained +far more of their racial customs and characteristics +than have their cousins below the international +boundary. Though divided into innumerable clans +and tribes, under local names, they fall naturally, on +linguistic grounds, into a few large groups. Thus, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_448"></a>[448]</span> +southern portion of the hinterland is occupied by the +Salish and the Kootenay; in the northern interior are +to be found the Tinneh or Athapackan people; while +the Haidas, Tsimshians, Kwakiatles, and Nootkas have +their villages along the coast, though the white settlers +speak of them collectively as Siwashes, “Siwash” +being nothing more than a corruption of the French +<i>sauvage</i>. These British Columbian aborigines are strikingly +Oriental in appearance, having so many of the +facial characteristics of the Mongol that it does not +need the arguments of an ethnologist to convince one +that they owe their origin to Asia. Indeed, it is a +common saying that if you cut the hair of a Siwash +you will find a Japanese. They are generally short +and squat of figure and, though habitually lazy, are +possessed of almost incredible endurance. One of them +was pointed out to me, a brave named Chickens, who +packed a piece of machinery weighing three hundred +pounds over one hundred and eighty miles of rough +forest trails in twelve days. Some years ago the Indians +of the Hag-wel-get village constructed a suspension +bridge of rope and timbers across the dizzy chasm +at the bottom of which flows the raging Bulkley. +This bridge is an interesting piece of work, for in building +it the Indians adopted the cantilever system, a +form of construction generally supposed to be beyond +the comprehension of uncivilised peoples. But the +amazing feature of the structure is that the varying +members are not secured together by nails, bolts, or +screws but simply lashed with willow withes. It is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_449"></a>[449]</span> +a crazy-looking affair, and when you venture on it it +creaks, groans, and swings as if threatening to collapse. +Even the weight of a dog is sufficient to set it vibrating +sickeningly. When it was completed, the Indians +were evidently in some doubt as to the stability of +their handiwork, for they tested it by sending a score +of kloochmen out upon the quivering structure. If +it held, well and good—it was strong enough to bear +the weight of an Indian; if it gave way—oh, well, there +were plenty of other squaws where those came from.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus46" style="max-width: 29.6875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus46.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>“Some of the cemeteries look as though + they were filled with white-enamelled cribs.”</p> + <p>The grave-house of a chieftain near Kispiox.</p> + <p>“Over each grave is a house which is a cross between ... a Turkish + kiosk and a Chinese pagoda.”</p> + <p>SOME SIWASH CEMETERIES.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>The Siwashes bury their dead in some of the +strangest cemeteries in the world, over each grave +being erected a grave house of grotesquely carved and +gaudily painted wood, which is a cross between a dog +kennel, a chicken-coop, a Chinese pagoda, and a Turkish +kiosk. In these strange mausoleums the personal +belongings and gewgaws of the dear departed are +prominently displayed. It may be a trunk or a dressing-table, +usually bedecked with vases of withered +flowers; from a line stretched across the interior of +the structure hang the remnants of his or her clothing, +and always in a conspicuous position is a photograph +of the deceased. Though sometimes several hundred +dollars are expended in the erection of one of these +quaint structures, as soon as the funeral rites are over +the tomb is left to the ravages of wind and rain, not a +cent being expended upon its up-keep. Of recent +years, however, those Indians who can afford it are +abandoning the old-time wooden grave houses for +elaborate enclosures of wire netting which gave the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_450"></a>[450]</span> +cemeteries the appearance of being filled with enamelled +iron cribs. Perhaps their most curious custom, however, +is that of potlatch giving. A potlatch is generosity +carried to the nth degree. Some of them are very +grand affairs, the Indians coming in to attend them +from miles around. It is by no means unusual for an +Indian to actually beggar himself by his munificence +on these occasions, a wealthy chieftain who gave a +potlatch recently at Kispiox piling blankets, which +are the Indians’ chief measure of wealth, around a +totem-pole to a height of forty feet.</p> + +<p>The Siwash villages are usually built high on a +bank above some navigable stream, the totem-poles +in front of the miserable cabins being so thick in +places as to look from a distance like a forest that has +been ravaged by fire. The Skeena might, indeed, be +called the Totem-Pole River, for from end to end it is +bordered by Indian villages whose grotesquely carven +spars proclaim to all who traverse that great wilderness +thoroughfare the genealogies of the families before +whose dwellings they are reared. Though the Siwashes +are accustomed to desert a village when the fishing +and hunting run out and establish themselves elsewhere, +their totem-poles may not be disturbed with +impunity, as some business men of Seattle once found +out. A few years ago the Seattle Chamber of Commerce +arranged an excursion to Alaska, chartering a steamer +for the purpose. While returning down the British +Columbian coast, the vessel dropped anchor for a few +hours at the head of a fiord, off a deserted Siwash<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_451"></a>[451]</span> +village whose water-front was lined with imposing +totem-poles.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="illus47" style="max-width: 50em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus47.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><table><tr> + <td class="td3"><p>“Proclaiming ... the stories of the families + before whose dwellings they are reared.”</p></td> + <td class="td3"><p>“The Skeena might be called the Totem Pole River.”</p></td> + <td class="td3"><p>The base of a Siwash totem-pole—“the God of Love.”</p></td> + </tr></table> + <p>HERALDRY IN THE HINTERLAND.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>“Say,” said an enterprising business man, “this +place is deserted, all right, all right. The Indians have +evidently gotten out for good. So what’s the matter +with our chopping down that big totem-pole over there, +hoisting it on deck, and taking it back to Seattle? +It’ll look perfectly bully set up in Pioneer Square.”</p> + +<p>Every one agreed that it was, indeed, a perfectly +bully suggestion and it was carried out, the purloined +pole being erected in due time in the heart of Seattle’s +business section, where it stands to-day. The affair +received considerable notice in the newspapers, of +course, and those responsible for thus adding to the +city’s attractions were editorially patted on the back. +A few weeks later, however, they were served with +papers in a civil suit brought against them by the Indians +from whose village, without so much as a by-your-leave, +they had removed the pole. At first they +jeered at the idea of a handful of Siwash villagers +dwelling up there on the skirts of civilisation having +any rights which they could enforce in a court of +law, but they soon found that it was no laughing +matter, for the Indians, backed by the British Columbian +Government, pressed their claim and it cost the +gentlemen concerned four thousand dollars for their +Siwash souvenir.</p> + +<p>Everything considered, British Columbia is, I +believe, the finest game country in the western hemisphere, +bar none, for the sportsmen have as yet barely<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_452"></a>[452]</span> +nibbled at its edges. It is to America, in fact, what +the Victoria Nyanza country is to Africa: a veritable +sportsman’s paradise, to make use of a term which +the writers of railway folders have taken for their +own. It is the sole remaining region south of Alaska +where the hunter can go with almost positive assurance +that he will have a chance to draw a bead upon a grizzly +bear; mountain sheep and goat are seen so frequently +on the slopes of the Rocher de Boulé, at the back of +New Hazelton, that they do not provoke even passing +comment; the islands off the province’s ragged coast +are the only habitat of that <i>rara avis</i>, the spotted +bear; musk-ox and wood-buffalo, among the scarcest +big game in existence, still graze on the prairies which +are watered by the headwaters of the Mackenzie and +the Peace; elk, caribou, and mule-deer are as common +as squirrels in Central Park; wolves, wolverenes, +lynxes, and the fox in all its species, to say nothing of +the beaver, the marten, and the mink, still make the +province one of the richest fur grounds in the world. +Wild fowl literally blacken its lakes and fiords in the +spring and autumn; grouse and pheasant, as I have +previously remarked, are so tame that they can be +and are killed with a club; while salmon, trout, and +sturgeon fill the countless streams, sometimes in such +vast numbers that they actually choke the smaller +creeks and rivers. When there is taken into consideration +the fact of its comparative accessibility (New +Hazelton can be reached from Seattle in a little more +than three days) and the healthfulness of its climate—for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_453"></a>[453]</span> +British Columbia, unlike most of the other celebrated +hunting-grounds, is distinctly a “white man’s +country”—it is almost incomprehensible why it has +not attracted far greater attention from the men who +go into the wild with rod and gun.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="illus48" style="max-width: 29.6875em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/illus48.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>The Rocher de Boulé from the Indian + village of Awillgate.</p> + <p>The Upper Fraser at Quesnel. This is the head of steamer navigation + and the end of the Cariboo Trail.</p> + <p>The Babine Range from Old Hazelton.</p> + <p>A LAND OF SUBLIMITY AND MAGNIFICENCE AND GRANDEUR, OF GLOOM AND + LONELINESS AND DREAD.</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>It is a land of immensity and majesty and opportunity, +is this almost unknown empire in the near-by +North. It is a region of sublimity and magnificence +and grandeur, of gloom and loneliness and dread. It +is as savage as a grizzly, as alluring as a lovely woman. +Its scenery is of the set-piece and drop-curtain kind. +Streams of threaded quicksilver, coming from God +knows where, hasten through deep-gashed valleys as +though anxious to escape from the solitude that reigns. +On the flanks of the ridges, massed in their black battalions, +stand the bleak barbarian pines, while above +the scented pine gloom, like blanketed chiefs in council +under the wigwam of the sky, the snow peaks gleam +in splendour, and behind them, beyond them, the sun-god +paints his canvas in the West. Pregnant with the +seed of unborn cities, potent in resources and possibilities +beyond the stranger’s ken, it lies waiting to +be conquered:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“The last and the largest empire,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The map that is half unrolled.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_454"></a>[454]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_455"></a>[455]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="INDEX">INDEX</h2> + +</div> + +<ul> + +<li class="ifrst">Abbott, Judge, ranch-house of, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Acoma, New Mexico, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_40">40-55</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">antiquity, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">costumes, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>, <a href="#Page_53">53</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">church, <a href="#Page_48">48</a>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">customs, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">dwellings, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">funeral, <a href="#Page_51">51</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">graveyard, <a href="#Page_51">51</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">houses, <a href="#Page_45">45-47</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">industries, <a href="#Page_53">53</a>, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">paths to, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">people of, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">picture of San José in, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">police, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">site of, <a href="#Page_40">40</a>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_45">45</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">symbolic hair-dressing, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">women, <a href="#Page_53">53-55</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Agricultural College, Oregon, <a href="#Page_315">315</a>, <a href="#Page_316">316</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Agriculture, United States Department of, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Alaska, <a href="#Page_381">381</a>, <a href="#Page_438">438</a>, <a href="#Page_439">439</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Alberni, B. C., <a href="#Page_363">363</a>, <a href="#Page_375">375</a>, <a href="#Page_376">376</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Albuquerque, New Mexico, <a href="#Page_13">13-16</a>, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">agricultural possibilities, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">climate, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">commercial club, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">university at, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Alcatraz, prison at, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Aldermere, B. C., <a href="#Page_434">434</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Alejandro, Padre, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Alfalfa raising, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>, <a href="#Page_260">260</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Algiers, <a href="#Page_190">190</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Amargosa River, the, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">“American Alps,” the, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">“American Mentone,” the, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">American River, the, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">American School of Archæology, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Anacapa Island, <a href="#Page_151">151</a></li> + +<li class="indx">Anacortes, <a href="#Page_344">344</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Apple orchards, Oregon, <a href="#Page_296">296</a>, <a href="#Page_297">297</a>, <a href="#Page_318">318</a>, <a href="#Page_319">319</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Archæological research in the United States, <a href="#Page_22">22-25</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Architecture, California, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>, <a href="#Page_200">200</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Arizona, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">admitted to the Union, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">cities, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">climate, <a href="#Page_83">83-85</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">contrasted with Egypt, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">copper output, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">desert, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">early inhabitants, <a href="#Page_77">77</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">effects of civilization in, <a href="#Page_63">63-65</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">game-hunting, <a href="#Page_85">85-87</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">history of, <a href="#Page_76">76-79</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">irrigation, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">misconceptions concerning, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">missions, <a href="#Page_91">91-93</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">organised as territory, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">people law-abiding, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">pioneers, <a href="#Page_67">67-69</a>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">prison system, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">products of the soil, <a href="#Page_74">74-76</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">progress in, <a href="#Page_66">66-69</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">two distinct regions of, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Arizona Rangers, the, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Ark, the, <a href="#Page_376">376</a>, <a href="#Page_377">377</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Arroyo Hondo, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Ashcroft, B. C., <a href="#Page_391">391-6</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Ashland, Oregon, <a href="#Page_323">323</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Automobiles, in Oregon, <a href="#Page_313">313</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Avalon, Santa Catalina, <a href="#Page_148">148-151</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Bakersfield, California, <a href="#Page_259">259-261</a>, <a href="#Page_324">324</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Banning Company, the, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Barbareños, <a href="#Page_152">152</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Barkerville, B. C., <a href="#Page_392">392</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Barrancas, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Bay of Monterey, the lost, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Beaman, Judge, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Bellingham, <a href="#Page_348">348</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">“Ben Hur,” <a href="#Page_16">16</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Benedict, Judge Kirby, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Benicia, California, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Bent, Governor, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Big-game hunting, <a href="#Page_85">85-87</a>, <a href="#Page_347">347</a>, <a href="#Page_451">451-3</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Big trees of California, <a href="#Page_254">254</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>, <a href="#Page_257">257</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Bisbee, Arizona, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Black Hills, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Blackwater, B. C., <a href="#Page_401">401</a>, <a href="#Page_405">405</a>, <a href="#Page_406">406</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Blaine, <a href="#Page_348">348</a>, <a href="#Page_349">349</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Boar-hunting, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Bobtail Lake, B. C., <a href="#Page_403">403</a>, <a href="#Page_404">404</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Bohemian Club of San Francisco, the, <a href="#Page_158">158</a>, <a href="#Page_202">202</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_456"></a>[456]</span>Bohemians in California, <a href="#Page_282">282</a>, <a href="#Page_283">283</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Borax deposits, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Bradshaw Mountains, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Bret Harte, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Bridge built by Indians, <a href="#Page_448">448</a>, <a href="#Page_449">449</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Bridger, Jim, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">British Columbia, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>, <a href="#Page_355">355 <i>et seq.</i></a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">area, <a href="#Page_358">358</a>, <a href="#Page_359">359</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">character of the country, <a href="#Page_362">362</a>, <a href="#Page_363">363</a>, <a href="#Page_453">453</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">cities of, <a href="#Page_363">363</a>, <a href="#Page_364">364</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">climate, <a href="#Page_361">361</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">corduroying roads in, <a href="#Page_411">411</a>, <a href="#Page_412">412</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">cutting path through forest, <a href="#Page_428">428</a>, <a href="#Page_429">429</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">freighters, <a href="#Page_398">398</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">frontier, <a href="#Page_389">389 <i>et seq.</i></a>, <a href="#Page_421">421 <i>et seq.</i></a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">game-hunting, <a href="#Page_451">451-3</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">government’s interest in settlers, <a href="#Page_407">407</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Indians, <a href="#Page_415">415</a>, <a href="#Page_447">447-451</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">“muskeg,” <a href="#Page_410">410</a>, <a href="#Page_411">411</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">pioneers in, <a href="#Page_385">385</a>, <a href="#Page_386">386</a>, <a href="#Page_390">390</a>, <a href="#Page_397">397 <i>et seq.</i></a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">prohibition in, <a href="#Page_407">407-9</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">railways, <a href="#Page_378">378-382</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">resources, <a href="#Page_359">359-361</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">roads, <a href="#Page_411">411</a>, <a href="#Page_415">415</a>, <a href="#Page_416">416</a>, <a href="#Page_433">433</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">British Columbia Express Company, <a href="#Page_391">391</a>, <a href="#Page_392">392</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Brussels, restoration of, <a href="#Page_17">17</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Bryce, James, <a href="#Page_299">299</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Bunk-houses, British Columbia, <a href="#Page_413">413</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Bureau of Indian Affairs, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Burlingame, California, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Burns Lake, B. C., <a href="#Page_424">424</a>, <a href="#Page_425">425</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Busch Gardens, Pasadena, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Cabbage-growing in New Mexico, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Cabrillo, Juan Rodrigues, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx"><i>Cabrillo</i>, the, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Caire estate, the, <a href="#Page_152">152</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">California Debris Commission, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">California, <a href="#Page_160">160 <i>et seq.</i></a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">agriculture of, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">architecture, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>, <a href="#Page_200">200</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Chinese in, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">climate, <a href="#Page_157">157-9</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">coast, <a href="#Page_161">161</a>, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">discovery of, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">dust, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">festivals, <a href="#Page_201">201-3</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">fogs, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Great Valley of, <a href="#Page_242">242-4</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">hinterland, <a href="#Page_240">240 <i>et seq.</i></a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Japanese in, <a href="#Page_207">207-210</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">labour problems in, <a href="#Page_206">206-8</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">missions, <a href="#Page_117">117-122</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>, + <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">orange groves, <a href="#Page_125">125-8</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133-8</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">popular misnomers, <a href="#Page_216">216</a>, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">rain, <a href="#Page_158">158</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">roads, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">seaside resorts, <a href="#Page_142">142-4</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">summer climate, <a href="#Page_157">157-160</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">three distinct zones of, <a href="#Page_157">157</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">trees, <a href="#Page_254">254-8</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Camels, wild, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx" id="Camino_Real">Camino Real, El, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>, <a href="#Page_161">161</a>, + <a href="#Page_178">178</a>, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Camp Sierra, <a href="#Page_257">257</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Canada, agricultural invasion of, <a href="#Page_357">357</a>, <a href="#Page_358">358</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">motoring in, <a href="#Page_348">348-350</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">railways, <a href="#Page_378">378-381</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Canadian Northern Railway, <a href="#Page_378">378-381</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Canadian Pacific Railway, <a href="#Page_378">378-380</a>, <a href="#Page_395">395</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Canal at Celilo, <a href="#Page_291">291</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Cañon of the Macho, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">of the Santa Fé, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Cañons, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Cañon’s Crest, <a href="#Page_131">131</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Cape Flattery, <a href="#Page_344">344</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Cape Horn, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>, <a href="#Page_301">301</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Caravels, miniature, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Cariboo Trail, the, <a href="#Page_391">391-9</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Carmel, mission of, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Carpinteria, California, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Carquinez Straits, the, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Carson, Kit, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Casa Grande, ruins of, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">irrigation, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Cascade Range, the, <a href="#Page_277">277</a>, <a href="#Page_285">285</a>, <a href="#Page_293">293</a>, <a href="#Page_295">295</a>, <a href="#Page_298">298-300</a>, + <a href="#Page_310">310</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Casitas Pass, the, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Casteñeda, <a href="#Page_45">45</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Castle Hot Springs, Arizona, <a href="#Page_81">81-83</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Castle Rock, <a href="#Page_301">301</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Castro, General, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Catalina Range, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Cattle-raising in New Mexico, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Caux, Eugene (Old Man Cataline), <a href="#Page_444">444-7</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Cave-dwellers, <a href="#Page_22">22-25</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Caves, painted, of Santa Cruz, <a href="#Page_151">151</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Oregon, <a href="#Page_324">324</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Celilo, canal at, <a href="#Page_291">291</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Channel Islands, the, <a href="#Page_146">146-154</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Charles the Second of Aragon, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Chinese, in California, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_457"></a>[457]</span>farming, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Church, adobe, at Acoma, <a href="#Page_48">48-50</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Civil War, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Clarksburg, California, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Cline, “Dutch,” <a href="#Page_439">439</a>, <a href="#Page_441">441</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Cloud Cap Inn, <a href="#Page_297">297</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Coast Range, the, <a href="#Page_241">241</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Colorado Desert, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Colorado River, the, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Colton Hall, Monterey, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx"><i>Columbia, of Boston</i>, the, <a href="#Page_303">303</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Columbia River, the, <a href="#Page_273">273 <i>et seq.</i></a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Indian legend, <a href="#Page_293">293-5</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">length of, <a href="#Page_289">289</a>, <a href="#Page_290">290</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">romance of, <a href="#Page_292">292-6</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">salmon, <a href="#Page_302">302</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">scenery, <a href="#Page_290">290</a>, <a href="#Page_299">299-301</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">traffic, <a href="#Page_301">301</a>, <a href="#Page_302">302</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">waterfalls, <a href="#Page_300">300</a>, <a href="#Page_301">301</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Commerce of the prairies, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Commercial Club in Albuquerque, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Contra Costa County, California, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Copper mines, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Coronado, California, <a href="#Page_103">103-7</a>, <a href="#Page_216">216</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">hotel, <a href="#Page_105">105-7</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Polo Club, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Tent City, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Coronado, Don Francisco Vasquez de, expedition of, <a href="#Page_45">45</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Coronados Islands, the, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Cotton, Egyptian, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_76">76</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Coulterville, California, <a href="#Page_256">256</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">road, <a href="#Page_246">246</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Crater Lake, <a href="#Page_285">285</a>, <a href="#Page_286">286</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Crocker’s Sierra Resort, <a href="#Page_246">246</a>, <a href="#Page_247">247</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Czechs, <a href="#Page_282">282</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Dalton Divide, the, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Dams, Laguna and Roosevelt, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Elephant Butte, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Date, the Algerian, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_76">76</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">the Deglet Noor, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Death Valley, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172-8</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">borax deposits, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">climatic variation, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">effects of ultrararefied air, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">sand-storms, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Decker Lake, <a href="#Page_425">425-8</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Del Mar, California, <a href="#Page_117">117-9</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Del Monte, California, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Deming, New Mexico, <a href="#Page_3">3-8</a>, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Denver, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Depew, Chauncey, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Deschutes, the, <a href="#Page_287">287</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Desert, Arizona, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Colorado, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">New Mexican, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Dikes on the Sacramento, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Donner Lake, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Donner party tragedy, story of, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Drain, Oregon, <a href="#Page_323">323</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Drowned Lands, the, <a href="#Page_426">426</a>, <a href="#Page_428">428</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Dry Lake Ranch, <a href="#Page_282">282</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Duncan, woodsman, <a href="#Page_427">427-433</a>, <a href="#Page_437">437</a>, <a href="#Page_438">438</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Dungeness, <a href="#Page_344">344</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Easter pilgrimage, <a href="#Page_129">129-131</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Egypt, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">El Centro, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">El Paso, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Elephant Butte, dam at, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Elkins, Stephen B., <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">English in New Mexico, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">pioneers in the North, <a href="#Page_399">399-403</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Erosion, Acoma, a striking example of, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Eugene, Oregon, <a href="#Page_317">317</a>, <a href="#Page_320">320</a>, <a href="#Page_323">323</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Fair, Oregon State, <a href="#Page_312">312-7</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Farms, New Mexico, <a href="#Page_7">7-11</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Oregon, <a href="#Page_314">314</a>, <a href="#Page_315">315</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Feast of the Blossoms, the, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>, <a href="#Page_193">193</a>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Festivities, California out-of-door, <a href="#Page_201">201-3</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Fishing, deep-sea, at Avalon, <a href="#Page_149">149-151</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Fishing industry of the Sacramento, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Fish-wheels, <a href="#Page_302">302</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Flaherty, Michael, <a href="#Page_447">447</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Floral mosaic, <a href="#Page_267">267</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Florence, Arizona, State penitentiary at, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Folsom, California, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Foot-hills Hotel, the, <a href="#Page_164">164-6</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Forests, Sierran, <a href="#Page_266">266</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Fort Fraser, B. C., <a href="#Page_390">390</a>, <a href="#Page_395">395</a>, <a href="#Page_399">399</a>, <a href="#Page_416">416</a>, <a href="#Page_421">421-4</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">cost of provisions in, <a href="#Page_422">422</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Fort George, B. C., <a href="#Page_393">393</a>, <a href="#Page_408">408</a>, <a href="#Page_409">409</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_458"></a>[458]</span>Fowl, wild, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Fraser River, the, <a href="#Page_391">391</a>, <a href="#Page_392">392</a>, <a href="#Page_398">398</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Freight wagons, British Columbian, <a href="#Page_398">398</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Frémont, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Fresno, California, <a href="#Page_256">256</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Friday Harbour, <a href="#Page_344">344</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Frontier, the last, <a href="#Page_389">389 <i>et seq.</i></a>, <a href="#Page_421">421 <i>et seq.</i></a></li> + +<li class="indx">Frontiersmen, British Columbian, <a href="#Page_440">440-7</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Frost in the orange belt, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_257">257</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Fruit-growing, in Arizona, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Fruit-packing industry, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Funeral Range, the, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Furnace Creek, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Gadsden Treaty, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Gasoline, cost of in British Columbia, <a href="#Page_394">394</a>, <a href="#Page_395">395</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Gaviota Pass, the, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">General Grant Big Tree Grove, <a href="#Page_257">257</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Gila River, the, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Gilroy, California, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Glacier meadows, <a href="#Page_266">266</a>, <a href="#Page_267">267</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Globe, Arizona, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Goat, wild, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Gold discovery, California, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Gold dredger, <a href="#Page_230">230-2</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Golden Gate, the, <a href="#Page_241">241</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Golf-links, California, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, <a href="#Page_185">185</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Grand Island, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Grand Trunk Pacific Railway, <a href="#Page_364">364</a>, <a href="#Page_378">378-382</a>, <a href="#Page_384">384</a>, <a href="#Page_408">408</a>, <a href="#Page_426">426</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Grant’s Pass, Oregon, <a href="#Page_323">323</a>, <a href="#Page_324">324</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Great Central Lake, B. C., <a href="#Page_220">220</a>, <a href="#Page_375">375</a>, <a href="#Page_376">376</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Great Valley of California, the, <a href="#Page_242">242 <i>et seq.</i></a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">irrigation of, <a href="#Page_243">243</a>, <a href="#Page_244">244</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">petroleum fields, <a href="#Page_258">258</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Grove Play, Bohemian Club’s, <a href="#Page_158">158</a>, <a href="#Page_202">202</a>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Halleck, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Harriman, E. H., <a href="#Page_284">284</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Hawk’s Nest, the, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Heenan, the “Benicia Boy,” <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">High Sierras, the, <a href="#Page_266">266</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Highways, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_114">114-8</a>, <a href="#Page_161">161</a>, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>, + <a href="#Page_197">197</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>, <a href="#Page_215">215</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>, <a href="#Page_278">278</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Hillsboro, California, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Oregon, <a href="#Page_326">326</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Holland, waterways of, <a href="#Page_215">215</a>, <a href="#Page_216">216</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Hollanders in New Mexico, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Hollywood, California, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Homestead and Desert Land Acts, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_323">323</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Honey Lake, <a href="#Page_279">279</a>, <a href="#Page_280">280</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Hood River, <a href="#Page_296">296</a>, <a href="#Page_297">297</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Hopi Indians, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>, <a href="#Page_53">53-59</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Horton, Alonzo, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Hot Springs Junction, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Hotel Arlington, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">del Coronado, <a href="#Page_105">105-7</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">The Foot-hills, <a href="#Page_164">164-6</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Hund, John, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Hundred and Fifty Mile House, the, <a href="#Page_430">430-2</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Hunt, Governor George W. P., <a href="#Page_79">79</a>, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Hunting big game in Arizona, <a href="#Page_85">85-87</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">in British Columbia, <a href="#Page_451">451-3</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">in the Puget Sound country, <a href="#Page_347">347</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Hydraulic mining, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Imperial Valley, the, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_97">97-102</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>, <a href="#Page_194">194</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">agricultural products, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">highway into, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">irrigation of, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">soil expert’s report concerning, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">towns in, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Indian education, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>, <a href="#Page_48">48</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">legend of the Columbia, <a href="#Page_293">293-5</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">punishments, <a href="#Page_58">58-60</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">revolt of 1680, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">settlement in the Yosemite, <a href="#Page_250">250-2</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">sheep-owners, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Indians, Palatingwa, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Hopi, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>, <a href="#Page_53">53-59</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Siwash, <a href="#Page_415">415</a>, <a href="#Page_447">447-451</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Invalids, in Albuquerque, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Iron Hills, the, <a href="#Page_279">279</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Irrigation, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>, + <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>, <a href="#Page_225">225-7</a>, + <a href="#Page_243">243</a>, <a href="#Page_246">246</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Isleton, California, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Japanese in California, <a href="#Page_207">207-210</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_459"></a>[459]</span>Jewellery, Indian, <a href="#Page_53">53</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Kalama, <a href="#Page_331">331</a>, <a href="#Page_332">332</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Katzimo, <a href="#Page_40">40</a>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Kearney Boulevard, the, <a href="#Page_256">256</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Kearney, General, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">King’s Highway. (See <a href="#Camino_Real"><i>Camino Real</i></a>.)</li> + +<li class="indx">Kino, Jesuit Father, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Klamath Falls, <a href="#Page_283">283-5</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">La Jolla, California, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Labour problems in California, <a href="#Page_206">206-8</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Laguna, New Mexico, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">dam, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Lake Chapala, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Lake of Elsinore, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx" id="Lake_Tahoe">Lake Tahoe, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>, <a href="#Page_235">235</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>, <a href="#Page_264">264-270</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Larkin house, Monterey, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Leland Stanford, Jr., University, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Lick, James, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Linda Vista grade, the, <a href="#Page_114">114</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Lisa, Manuel, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Long Beach, California, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Los Angeles, California, <a href="#Page_142">142-5</a>, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">harbour, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>, <a href="#Page_145">145</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">name, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Los Gatos, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Los Olivos, inn at, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Lummis, Charles, <a href="#Page_139">139</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Macdonald, “Black Jack,” <a href="#Page_438">438</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">MacDonald, Bob, <a href="#Page_442">442</a>, <a href="#Page_443">443</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Machine shearing, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Madera, California, <a href="#Page_256">256</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Manzano Ranges, the, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">“Marble Halls of Oregon,” the, <a href="#Page_324">324</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Marcos de Niza, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Mare Island Navy Yard, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Mariposa Big Tree Grove, <a href="#Page_254">254</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Mark Twain, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Marshall, John, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Matilija Valley, the, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Meadows, mountain, <a href="#Page_266">266</a>, <a href="#Page_267">267</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Medford, Oregon, <a href="#Page_319">319</a>, <a href="#Page_323">323</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Mediterranean Riviera, the, <a href="#Page_161">161</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Memaloose, the Island of the Dead, <a href="#Page_293">293</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Merced Big Tree Grove, <a href="#Page_247">247</a>, <a href="#Page_256">256</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx"><i>Mesa Encantada, La</i> (the Enchanted Mesa), <a href="#Page_30">30-41</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Mexican War, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Mexicans, in New Mexico, <a href="#Page_28">28</a>, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Militiamen, Canadian, <a href="#Page_372">372</a>, <a href="#Page_373">373</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Miller, Frank, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Mimbres Valley, the, <a href="#Page_6">6 <i>et seq.</i></a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">climate, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Mining, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230-2</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Miramar, California, <a href="#Page_167">167</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Mission Inn at Riverside, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Mission Valley, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Missions, Arizona, <a href="#Page_91">91-93</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">California, <a href="#Page_117">117-122</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>, + <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Modesto, California, <a href="#Page_246">246</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Mojave City, Arizona, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Montecito, California, <a href="#Page_167">167</a>, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Monterey, California, <a href="#Page_159">159</a>, <a href="#Page_181">181-5</a>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_216">216</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">historic interest of, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Morehouse, Colonel C. P., <a href="#Page_150">150</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Moricetown, B. C., <a href="#Page_434">434-6</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Motoring in British Columbia, <a href="#Page_348">348-350</a>, <a href="#Page_372">372</a>, <a href="#Page_439">439</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">in California, <a href="#Page_113">113-8</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>, <a href="#Page_261">261-4</a>, + <a href="#Page_278">278</a>, <a href="#Page_279">279</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">in Oregon, <a href="#Page_320">320</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">in the Yosemite, <a href="#Page_246">246-8</a>, <a href="#Page_254">254</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Mount Adams, <a href="#Page_295">295</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Hamilton, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Hood, <a href="#Page_295">295</a>, <a href="#Page_298">298</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Hooker, <a href="#Page_346">346</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Lowe, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Rubidoux, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Rainier, <a href="#Page_337">337-340</a>, <a href="#Page_347">347</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Shasta, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Saint Helens, <a href="#Page_295">295</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">San Jacinto, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Tamalpais, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Topotopo, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Moving pictures taken in the West, <a href="#Page_64">64</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Muir, John, <a href="#Page_249">249</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Nanaimo, <a href="#Page_363">363</a>, <a href="#Page_372">372</a>, <a href="#Page_373">373</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Napoleon, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx"><i>Natalie</i>, the, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Nechako River, the, <a href="#Page_424">424</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Nehalem Bay, <a href="#Page_326">326</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">“Netherlands Route,” the, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">New Hazelton, B. C., <a href="#Page_380">380</a>, <a href="#Page_381">381</a>, <a href="#Page_428">428</a>, <a href="#Page_436">436-440</a>, <a href="#Page_443">443</a>, + <a href="#Page_452">452</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">“New Helvetia,” <a href="#Page_227">227</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_460"></a>[460]</span>New Mexico, annexation of, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">changes in, <a href="#Page_3">3 <i>et seq.</i></a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">character of the people, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">climate of, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">desert, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">dress, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">farming in, <a href="#Page_7">7-11</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">fuel, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">industries, <a href="#Page_25">25-28</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Mexicans in, <a href="#Page_28">28</a>, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">mineral deposits, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">prosperity of, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">religious fanaticism, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">settlers in, <a href="#Page_10">10-13</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">social fabric, <a href="#Page_28">28</a>, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Spanish spoken in, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">turquoise deposits, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">water discovery, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">well-digging, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">white population, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">New Westminster, B. C., <a href="#Page_350">350</a>, <a href="#Page_363">363</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Nisqually Glacier, the, <a href="#Page_338">338-340</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Oak Knoll, California, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Oceanside, California, <a href="#Page_117">117-9</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Oil-fields, California, <a href="#Page_258">258</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Ojai Valley, the, <a href="#Page_162">162-6</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Olympia, <a href="#Page_336">336</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Oñate, Juan de, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_51">51</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Orange groves of California, <a href="#Page_125">125-8</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133-8</a>, <a href="#Page_257">257</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Oregon, <a href="#Page_307">307-328</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Agricultural College, <a href="#Page_315">315</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">apple orchards, <a href="#Page_296">296</a>, <a href="#Page_318">318</a>, <a href="#Page_319">319</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">caves, <a href="#Page_324">324</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">character of the country, <a href="#Page_324">324-8</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">charm of, <a href="#Page_326">326-8</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">climate, <a href="#Page_327">327</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">emigration to, <a href="#Page_321">321-3</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">farmer, <a href="#Page_313">313-6</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">a frontier country, <a href="#Page_325">325</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">hinterland, <a href="#Page_275">275 <i>et seq.</i></a>, <a href="#Page_309">309</a>, <a href="#Page_310">310</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">opportunities in, <a href="#Page_322">322</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">prohibition in, <a href="#Page_323">323</a>, <a href="#Page_324">324</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">railroad, <a href="#Page_325">325-7</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">State Fair, <a href="#Page_312">312-7</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">timber, <a href="#Page_322">322</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">towns, <a href="#Page_308">308</a>, <a href="#Page_323">323</a>, <a href="#Page_324">324</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Oregon Trail, the, <a href="#Page_276">276</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">“Our Italy,” <a href="#Page_216">216</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Pacific Great Eastern Railway, <a href="#Page_379">379-380</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Pack-train on the Cariboo Trail, <a href="#Page_397">397</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">“Padre’s Path,” <a href="#Page_42">42</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Pajarito National Park, <a href="#Page_22">22-25</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Pala, San Antonia de, mission chapel, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Palatingwa tribe, the, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Palo Alto, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Panamint Range, the, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Pasadena, California, <a href="#Page_131">131-3</a>, <a href="#Page_138">138-142</a>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a>, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Busch Gardens, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Mount Lowe, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Orange Grove Avenue, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Pecos, the, valley of, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Forest Reserve, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Pelican Bay Lodge, <a href="#Page_285">285</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Pelicans, <a href="#Page_283">283</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Penitentes, the, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Petroleum fields, California, <a href="#Page_258">258</a>, <a href="#Page_259">259</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Philip III, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Phœnix, Arizona, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>, + <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Pillars of Hercules, <a href="#Page_301">301</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Pilot Peak, <a href="#Page_278">278</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Pio Pico, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Placerville, California, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Plaza del Mar, Santa Barbara, <a href="#Page_169">169</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Point Loma, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Polo Club at Coronado, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Port Alberni, B. C., <a href="#Page_376">376</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Port Angeles, <a href="#Page_344">344</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Port Mann, B. C., <a href="#Page_380">380</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Portland, Oregon, <a href="#Page_202">202</a>, <a href="#Page_308">308</a>, <a href="#Page_331">331</a>, <a href="#Page_332">332</a>, <a href="#Page_341">341</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">residences, <a href="#Page_311">311</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Portola, Don Caspar de, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_210">210</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Prescott, Arizona, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Prince Rupert, B. C., <a href="#Page_379">379-384</a>, <a href="#Page_390">390</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Prison system, Arizona, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Prunes, California, <a href="#Page_193">193</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Pueblo system of government, <a href="#Page_58">58</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Puget Sound country, the, <a href="#Page_341">341-7</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">a trip through, <a href="#Page_343">343-5</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">variety of sports and recreations, <a href="#Page_345">345-7</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Punishments, Indian, <a href="#Page_58">58-60</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Quesnel, B. C., <a href="#Page_392">392</a>, <a href="#Page_394">394</a>, <a href="#Page_395">395</a>, <a href="#Page_399">399</a>, <a href="#Page_401">401</a>, + <a href="#Page_445">445</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Railways in British Columbia, <a href="#Page_378">378-382</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Rainier National Park, <a href="#Page_338">338</a>, <a href="#Page_340">340</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Raisin industry, <a href="#Page_256">256</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx"><i>Ramona</i>, home of, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Ranches, Californian, <a href="#Page_242">242</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Rasmussen, Peter, <a href="#Page_412">412-4</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Raton, New Mexico, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Redlands, California, <a href="#Page_131">131</a>, <a href="#Page_132">132</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_461"></a>[461]</span>Redondo, California, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Remittance-man, the, <a href="#Page_400">400</a>, <a href="#Page_401">401</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Rincon route, the, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Rio Grande, the, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Rito de los Frijoles, the, <a href="#Page_23">23-25</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">River gardens, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Riverside, California, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_125">125-133</a>, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Easter pilgrimage, <a href="#Page_129">129-131</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Mission Inn at, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Riviera, the Californian, <a href="#Page_161">161</a>, <a href="#Page_216">216</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Rogue, valley of the, <a href="#Page_321">321</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Roosevelt dam, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>, + <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Roseburg, Oregon, <a href="#Page_323">323</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Sacramento, <a href="#Page_215">215</a>, <a href="#Page_224">224-8</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Sacramento River, the, <a href="#Page_215">215-227</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>, <a href="#Page_241">241</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">dikes, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">fishing industry, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">homes along, <a href="#Page_223">223</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">house-boats, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">reclamation of banks, <a href="#Page_225">225-7</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">traffic, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">truck-gardens, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Salem, Oregon, <a href="#Page_312">312</a>, <a href="#Page_323">323</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Salmon fisheries, <a href="#Page_302">302</a>, <a href="#Page_348">348</a>, <a href="#Page_375">375</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Salt River Valley, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Antonio de Pala, mission chapel of, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Bernardino Range, the, <a href="#Page_241">241</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Buenaventura, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Carlos, Church of, Monterey, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Clemente, island of, <a href="#Page_151">151</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Diego, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107-112</a>, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>, + <a href="#Page_118">118</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">advantages, <a href="#Page_109">109</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">climate, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">geography, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">growth of, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">highway, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">history, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">prospects, <a href="#Page_109">109-111</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Francisco, <a href="#Page_215">215</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Portola Festival at, <a href="#Page_201">201</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Joaquin River, the, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>, <a href="#Page_241">241</a>, <a href="#Page_242">242</a>, <a href="#Page_245">245</a>, <a href="#Page_256">256</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San José, California, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>, <a href="#Page_200">200</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">mission, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San José, picture of, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Juan Bautista, mission of, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Juan Islands, <a href="#Page_343">343</a>, <a href="#Page_344">344</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Luis Obispo, California, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Luis Rey, mission of, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Mateo, California, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">New Mexico, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Pedro, harbour of, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>, <a href="#Page_145">145</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx"><i>San Salvador</i>, the, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">San Xavier del Bac, mission of, <a href="#Page_91">91-94</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Sand-storms in Death Valley, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Sangre de Cristo Range, the, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Santa Barbara, <a href="#Page_166">166-172</a>, <a href="#Page_202">202</a>, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">architecture, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Arlington Hotel, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">college, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">contrasts in, <a href="#Page_167">167</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Old Town section, <a href="#Page_168">168</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Plaza del Mar, <a href="#Page_169">169</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">State Street, <a href="#Page_169">169</a>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Santa Barbara Islands, the, <a href="#Page_146">146</a>, <a href="#Page_151">151-3</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Santa Catalina Island, <a href="#Page_146">146-151</a>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Santa Clara Valley, the, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_190">190-210</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">air in, <a href="#Page_206">206</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">blossom-time in, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>, <a href="#Page_193">193</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">climate, <a href="#Page_200">200</a>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">land values, <a href="#Page_204">204</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">productiveness of, <a href="#Page_193">193-5</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">schools in, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">ultrafashionable colonies of, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Santa Clara Valley (southern), <a href="#Page_262">262</a>, <a href="#Page_263">263</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Santa Cruz Island, <a href="#Page_151">151-3</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Santa Fé, <a href="#Page_16">16-21</a>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">governor’s palace, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">history, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Mexicans in, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">name of, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">possibilities of, <a href="#Page_17">17</a>, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">scenery, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Santa Fé, Prescott & Phœnix Railway, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Santa Fé Trail, the, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Santa Monica, California, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Santa Paula, California, <a href="#Page_263">263</a>, <a href="#Page_264">264</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Santa Rita Mountains, <a href="#Page_92">92</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Santa Ynez, inn near, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">mission of, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Santa Ynez Range, the, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>, <a href="#Page_216">216</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Saugus, California, <a href="#Page_262">262</a>, <a href="#Page_263">263</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Scenic Highway, the, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Schoolhouses in the Santa Clara, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Seals, of Santa Cruz, <a href="#Page_151">151</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Seaside resorts, California, <a href="#Page_142">142-4</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Seattle, <a href="#Page_202">202</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">compared with Portland, <a href="#Page_340">340</a>, <a href="#Page_341">341</a>, <a href="#Page_346">346</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Sentinel Hotel, the, <a href="#Page_249">249</a>, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_462"></a>[462]</span>Sequim Prairie, <a href="#Page_344">344</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Sequoia trees, the, <a href="#Page_254">254</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>, <a href="#Page_257">257</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Serra, Father Junipero, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, + <a href="#Page_181">181</a>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>, <a href="#Page_210">210</a>, + <a href="#Page_246">246</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Servilleta, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Sespe Valley, the, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Sheep-raising, <a href="#Page_26">26-28</a>, <a href="#Page_262">262</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Sherman, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Sierra Nevada Range, the, <a href="#Page_160">160</a>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>, <a href="#Page_241">241</a>, <a href="#Page_265">265-7</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Silver City, New Mexico, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Siskiyous, the, <a href="#Page_324">324</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Siwash Indians, <a href="#Page_415">415</a>, <a href="#Page_416">416</a>, <a href="#Page_447">447-451</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Skeena, the, <a href="#Page_390">390</a>, <a href="#Page_394">394</a>, <a href="#Page_395">395</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Skylanders, <a href="#Page_42">42 <i>et seq.</i></a></li> + +<li class="indx">Smiley Heights, California, <a href="#Page_131">131</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Smith, Captain Jedediah, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>, <a href="#Page_210">210</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Smithsonian Institution, <a href="#Page_40">40</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Sol Duc Hot Springs, <a href="#Page_344">344</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Southern California, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Spanish dominion in Mexico, overthrow of, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Sprockets, John D., <a href="#Page_109">109</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Stage-coaches, <a href="#Page_90">90</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Stanford, Leland, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>, <a href="#Page_210">210</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Stevenson, Robert Louis, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Stockton, California, <a href="#Page_244">244-6</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Stony Creek, B. C., <a href="#Page_415">415</a>, <a href="#Page_416">416</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Studebaker, John, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Suisun Bay, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Summerland, California, <a href="#Page_167">167</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Summit, California, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Superstition Mountains, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Susanville, <a href="#Page_277">277</a>, <a href="#Page_280">280-2</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Sutler, John Augustus, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Sutler’s Fort, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Swamp and Drowned Lands Act, <a href="#Page_260">260</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Tacoma, <a href="#Page_336">336-8</a>, <a href="#Page_346">346</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Tahoe. (See <a href="#Lake_Tahoe"><i>Lake Tahoe</i></a>.)</li> + +<li class="indx">Tahoe Tavern, <a href="#Page_268">268</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Tallac, California, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Taos, New Mexico, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>, <a href="#Page_55">55-58</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">houses, <a href="#Page_45">45</a>, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Tehachapi Range, the, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>, <a href="#Page_241">241</a>, <a href="#Page_261">261</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Telegraph stations, frontier, <a href="#Page_403">403</a>, <a href="#Page_404">404</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Tennis Club, Ojai Valley, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Tent City, at Coronado, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Tête Jaune Pass, the, <a href="#Page_379">379</a>, <a href="#Page_380">380</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">The Dalles, Oregon, <a href="#Page_276">276</a>, <a href="#Page_277">277</a>, <a href="#Page_286">286-8</a>, <a href="#Page_291">291</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Tiles, Spanish, <a href="#Page_168">168</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Tillamook County, Oregon, <a href="#Page_326">326</a>, <a href="#Page_327">327</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Tingley, Madame, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Torrey pine, the, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Trail riding, <a href="#Page_260">260</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Trees, California Big, <a href="#Page_254">254</a>, <a href="#Page_255">255</a>, <a href="#Page_257">257</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Trevet, Victor, <a href="#Page_293">293</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Truck-gardens, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Truckee, California, <a href="#Page_233">233-5</a>, <a href="#Page_268">268</a>, <a href="#Page_269">269</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Tucson, Arizona, <a href="#Page_80">80</a>, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>, <a href="#Page_92">92</a>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Tucson Farms, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Tuna Club, the, at Avalon, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, <a href="#Page_151">151</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Tuna fishing, <a href="#Page_140">140-151</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Turquoise deposits, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Tyler, President, <a href="#Page_296">296</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Union Pacific Railroad, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Universal Brotherhood, the, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">University of California, Greek Theatre at, <a href="#Page_202">202</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">University of New Mexico, the, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Vallejo, California, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Vancouver, B. C., <a href="#Page_116">116</a>, <a href="#Page_349">349</a>, <a href="#Page_350">350</a>, <a href="#Page_363">363-7</a>, <a href="#Page_369">369</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Vancouver Island, <a href="#Page_345">345</a>, <a href="#Page_370">370-6</a>, <a href="#Page_442">442</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">fish and game, <a href="#Page_375">375</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Island Highway, <a href="#Page_371">371-4</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">motoring on, <a href="#Page_372">372</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">railway, <a href="#Page_381">381</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">scenery, <a href="#Page_373">373</a>, <a href="#Page_374">374</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">van Dyke, Dr. Henry, <a href="#Page_130">130</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Vargas, De, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Venice, California, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Ventura, California, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Victoria, B. C., <a href="#Page_346">346</a>, <a href="#Page_363">363-370</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Harbour, <a href="#Page_367">367</a>, <a href="#Page_368">368</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Visalia, California, <a href="#Page_246">246</a>, <a href="#Page_257">257</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx"><i>Vittoria</i>, the, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Vizcaino, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Wagon-trains, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>, <a href="#Page_398">398</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Wah, the brothers, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Walla Walla, <a href="#Page_295">295</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_463"></a>[463]</span>Wallace, General Lew, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Washington, <a href="#Page_331">331 <i>et seq.</i></a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">character of the country, <a href="#Page_334">334</a>, <a href="#Page_335">335</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">climate, <a href="#Page_335">335</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">land clearing, <a href="#Page_334">334</a>, <a href="#Page_335">335</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">names of towns, <a href="#Page_333">333</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">roads, <a href="#Page_331">331</a>, <a href="#Page_332">332</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">sign-posts, <a href="#Page_333">333</a>, <a href="#Page_334">334</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">water-power, <a href="#Page_335">335</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Water discovery in the Mimbres Valley, <a href="#Page_5">5</a>, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Waterfalls of the Columbia River, <a href="#Page_300">300</a>, <a href="#Page_301">301</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Wawona, California, <a href="#Page_254">254</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Webster, secretary of state, <a href="#Page_296">296</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Well-digging in New Mexico, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">White Rock Cañon, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Whitman, <a href="#Page_295">295</a>, <a href="#Page_296">296</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Willamette River, the, <a href="#Page_309">309-311</a>, <a href="#Page_317">317</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Wood, Mr., <a href="#Page_150">150</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Wool industry, the, <a href="#Page_26">26-28</a>.</li> + +<li class="ifrst">Yavapai Club, the, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Yosemite Valley, the, <a href="#Page_246">246-260</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Indian settlement, <a href="#Page_250">250-2</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">Sentinel Hotel, <a href="#Page_249">249</a>, <a href="#Page_250">250</a>;</li> +<li class="isub1">variety of recreation, <a href="#Page_253">253</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Yukon Telegraph Trail, <a href="#Page_395">395</a>.</li> + +<li class="indx">Yuma, Arizona, <a href="#Page_83">83-85</a>, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li> + +</ul> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="map" style="max-width: 87.5em;"> + <img class="w100" src="images/map.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption class="caption"><p>MAP OF THE FAR WEST, FROM NEW MEXICO TO BRITISH COLUMBIA, +SHOWING THE ROUTE FOLLOWED BY THE AUTHOR</p></figcaption> +</figure> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75697 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/75697-h/images/cover.jpg b/75697-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9527899 --- /dev/null +++ b/75697-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/75697-h/images/illus01.jpg b/75697-h/images/illus01.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5dcf30d --- /dev/null +++ b/75697-h/images/illus01.jpg diff --git a/75697-h/images/illus02.jpg b/75697-h/images/illus02.jpg Binary files differnew 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