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diff --git a/75697-0.txt b/75697-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..39d25f1 --- /dev/null +++ b/75697-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12321 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75697 *** + + + + + +THE END OF THE TRAIL + +[Illustration: _From a photograph by H. A. Erickson, Coronado, Cal._ + +THE PROMISED LAND. + +Looking southward to the Gulf of California—and Mexico.] + + + + +BOOKS BY E. ALEXANDER POWELL + +PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + + + THE LAST FRONTIER: THE WHITE MAN’S WAR FOR + CIVILIZATION IN AFRICA. Illustrated. 8vo _net_ $1.50 + + GENTLEMEN ROVERS. Illustrated. 8vo _net_ $1.50 + + THE END OF THE TRAIL. Illustrated. 8vo _net_ $3.00 + + + + + THE + END OF THE TRAIL + + THE FAR WEST FROM + NEW MEXICO TO BRITISH COLUMBIA + + BY + E. ALEXANDER POWELL, F.R.G.S. + AUTHOR OF “THE LAST FRONTIER,” “GENTLEMEN ROVERS,” ETC., ETC. + + _WITH FORTY-EIGHT FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS + AND A MAP_ + + NEW YORK + CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + 1914 + + COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY + CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS + + Published November, 1914 + + [Illustration] + + + + + TO + MY FRIEND AND FELLOW-ADVENTURER + ALBERT C. KUHN + OF + RANCHO YERBA BUENA + IN “THE VALLEY OF HEART’S DELIGHT” + + + + +FOREWORD + + +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. + +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 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 will disappear, never to +return, those stern and hardy figures—the pioneer, the prospector, the +packer, the puncher—who won for us the West. + +The _real_ 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. + +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 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. + + E. ALEXANDER POWELL. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + CHAPTER PAGE + + I. CONQUERORS OF SUN AND SAND 1 + + II. THE SKYLANDERS 33 + + III. CHOPPING A PATH TO TO-MORROW 61 + + IV. THE LAND OF DREAMS-COME-TRUE 95 + + V. WHERE GOLD GROWS ON TREES 123 + + VI. THE COAST OF FAIRYLAND 155 + + VII. THE VALLEY OF HEART’S DELIGHT 187 + + VIII. THE MODERN ARGONAUTS 211 + + IX. THE INLAND EMPIRE 237 + + X. “WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON” 271 + + XI. A FRONTIER ARCADY 305 + + XII. BREAKING THE WILDERNESS 329 + + XIII. CLINCHING THE RIVETS OF EMPIRE 351 + + XIV. BACK OF BEYOND 387 + + XV. THE MAP THAT IS HALF UNROLLED 419 + + INDEX 455 + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + + The Promised Land _Frontispiece_ + + FACING PAGE + + A Desert Dawn in New Mexico 4 + + Santa Fé: the Most Picturesque City between the Oceans 18 + + Remains of an Ancient Civilisation 24 + + The Land of the Turquoise Sky 38 + + Acoma: Supposed Ancient Site and Present Site 40 + + Acoma as It is To-Day 44 + + Acoma Hunter Home from the Hunt 48 + + Acoma Artisans 50 + + “Dance Mad!” 52 + + Young Acomans 54 + + The Education of a Young Hopi 56 + + The Pyramid-Pueblo of Taos 58 + + The Passing of the Puncher 64 + + Where the Roads Run Out and the Trails Begin 72 + + The Trail of a Thousand Thrills 88 + + Throwing the Diamond Hitch 90 + + Scenes in the Motor Journey Through Arizona 98 + + Not in Catalonia but in California 120 + + A Modern Version of the Sermon on the Mount 130 + + Santa Barbara, a City of Contrasts 168 + + The Mission of Santa Barbara 170 + + Lake Tahoe from the Slopes of the High Sierras 232 + + The Yosemite—and a Lady Who Didn’t Know Fear 250 + + Yosemite Youngsters, White and Red 252 + + The Greatest Oil Fields in the World 260 + + Over the Tehachapis 262 + + The Overland Mail 274 + + In the Oregon Hinterland 284 + + “Where Rolls the Oregon” 300 + + Where Rods Bend Double and Reels Go Whir-r-r-r 324 + + What the Road-Builders Have Done in Washington 332 + + The Unexplored Olympics 344 + + Where the Salmon Come from 348 + + Outposts of Civilisation 354 + + Breaking the Wilderness 356 + + Pack-Horses and a Pack-Dog 358 + + In the Great, Still Land 362 + + Sport on Vancouver Island 376 + + Life at the Back of Beyond 380 + + Transport on America’s Last Frontier 382 + + Transport on America’s Last Frontier 384 + + Scenes on the Cariboo Trail 400 + + Some Ladies from the Upper Skeena 422 + + Where No Motor-Car Had Ever Gone: Some Incidents of Mr. Powell’s + Journey Through the British Columbian Wilderness 428 + + Some Siwash Cemeteries 448 + + Heraldry in the Hinterland 450 + + A Land of Sublimity and Magnificence and Grandeur, of Gloom + and Loneliness and Dread 452 + + Map of the Far West, from New Mexico to British Columbia, + Showing the Route Followed by the Author _at end of volume_ + + + + +THE END OF THE TRAIL + + + + +I + +CONQUERORS OF SUN AND SAND + + “The song of the deed in the doing, of the work still hot from the hand; + Of the yoke of man laid friendly-wise on the neck of a tameless land. + While your merchandise is weighing, we will bit and bridle and rein + The floods of the storm-rocked mountains and lead them down to the plain; + And the foam-ribbed, dark-hued waters, tired from that mighty race, + Shall lie at the feet of palm and vine and know their appointed place; + And out of that subtle union, desert and mountain-flood, + Shall be homes for a nation’s choosing, where no homes else had stood.” + + + + +I + +CONQUERORS OF SUN AND SAND + + +“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. + +“No, sir,” replied the man, who happened to be a native filled with civic +pride; “this is Deming.” + +The story _may_ 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.” + +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, 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. + +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 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. + +[Illustration: _From a photograph copyright by Fred Harvey._ + +A DESERT DAWN IN NEW MEXICO.] + +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 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. + +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. + +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 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 _not_ +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 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +“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.” + +They’re as enthusiastic about a patch of alfalfa in New Mexico as the +Esquimaux of Labrador are about a stranded whale. + +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 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 _chaparejos_ 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 _de luxe_ 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 _piñon_ and mesquite and chaparral which cover it. +This clearing and 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. + +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 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 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. + +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 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. + +They have a commercial club in Albuquerque that _is_ 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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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? + +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 not resist the attractions of Queen Anne gables or +Clydesdale piazza columns or Colonial red-brick-and-green-blinds. + +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 _dolce far niente_ 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. + +[Illustration: A dwelling. + +A street. + + _From a photograph copyright by Jess Nusbaum._ Interior of a room. + +SANTA FÉ: THE MOST PICTURESQUE CITY BETWEEN THE OCEANS.] + +“They call me Santa Fé for short,” the New 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 _Mayflower_ 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 General Kearney proclaimed the annexation of New Mexico +to the United States: + +“_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._” + +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. “_Los Americanos! Los Carros! La Caravana!_” +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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, _twelve miles long_, +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. 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, _more than twenty thousand_ +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. + +[Illustration: “The arched ceremonial cave where ... this strange people +performed their still stranger rites.” + +“The archæologists have laid bare the ruins of a circular community +house.” + +REMAINS OF AN ANCIENT CIVILISATION.] + + * * * * * + +Of the three great elemental industries of New Mexico—cattle raising, +sheep raising, and mining—cattle 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. + +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 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. + +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 +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. + + * * * * * + +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 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 _lingua franca_ 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. + +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 Light—_La Luz_—and the Brothers of +Darkness—_Las Tinieblas_. Though they hold secret meetings with more +or less regularity throughout the year in their lodges or _morados_, +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. + +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 +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. + + * * * * * + +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, 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 _conquistadores_, 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. + + + + +II + +THE SKYLANDERS + + “Here still a lofty rock remains, + On which the curious eye may trace + (Now wasted half by wearing rains) + The fancies of a ruder race. + + ... + + And long shall timorous Fancy see + The painted chief, and pointed spear, + And Reason’s self shall bow the knee + To shadows and delusions here.” + + + + +II + +THE SKYLANDERS + + +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: + +“Are you the gent that’s goin’ to Acoma?” + +“I am,” said I, “if I can get there.” + +“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?” + +A guttural affirmative came out of the blackness. As the loquacious +station agent made no offer to light 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. + +“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. + +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 +_arroyo seco_, as they 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. + +“Laguna?” I inquired. + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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 which, in the white man’s tongue, means “Scratch-town.” + +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 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.” + +[Illustration: _From a photograph by A. C. Vroman._ + +THE LAND OF THE TURQUOISE SKY. + +“Great masses of fleecy cirrus drifting lazily, like flocks of new-washed +sheep, across the turquoise sky.”] + +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. “_La Mesa +Encantada_,” 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. + +Those disputatious cousins Science and Tradition seem to have agreed for +once that the original Acoma stood on the top of the _Mesa Encantada_, +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 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. + +[Illustration: _From a photograph by A. C. Vroman._ + +“A bandbox-shaped rock, higher than the Times Building in New York and +with sides almost as perpendicular.” + +_From a photograph by A. C. Vroman._ + +“The mesa on which the modern Acoma is perched might be likened to a +gigantic billiard-table three hundred and fifty-seven feet high.” + +ACOMA: SUPPOSED ANCIENT SITE AND PRESENT SITE.] + +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, 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 +_banda_; his legs were encased in _chaparejos_ 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. + +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. +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. + +[Illustration: _From a photograph by A. C. Vroman._ + +“The massive battlements of eroded rock between which it winds ... +suggest the stone-paved ascent to some stronghold of the Middle Ages.” + +_From a photograph by A. C. Vroman._ + +“You gain access to the first floor of an Acoma dwelling precisely as +you gain access to the hold of a ship.” + +ACOMA AS IT IS TO-DAY.] + +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 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, 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. + +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 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.” + +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 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.” + +[Illustration: _From a photograph copyright by Fred Harvey._ + +ACOMA HUNTER HOME FROM THE HUNT.] + +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 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 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, and every morning the hill people file in and cross themselves +before him and mutter a little prayer. + +[Illustration: _From a photograph by A. C. Vroman._ + +The pottery painter. + +_From a photograph by A. C. Vroman._ + +The blanket weaver. + +_From a photograph by A. C. Vroman._ + +The turquoise driller. + +ACOMA ARTISANS.] + +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 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. + +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 +_his_ windows or doors to _his_ 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 _banda_, 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 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. + +[Illustration: _From a photograph by A. C. Vroman._ + +“DANCE MAD!” + +“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.”] + +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 _tinajas_ 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 _pesos_, obtaining the turquoises from the rich +and highly profitable local mines, forms one of the 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. + +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 _nash-mi_, 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 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. + +[Illustration: _From a photograph by A. C. Vroman._ + +“When a girl is old enough to get married she is expected to arrange her +lustrous, blue-black hair in two large whorls.” + +_From a photograph by A. C. Vroman._ + +“Rows of roguish children’s faces which peer down at you from every +sun-baked housetop.” + +YOUNG ACOMANS.] + +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. + +[Illustration: _From a photograph copyright by Fred Harvey_. + +His first riding lesson. + +_From a photograph copyright by Fred Harvey_. + +The dancing lesson. + +_From a photograph copyright by Fred Harvey_. + +The history lesson. + +THE EDUCATION OF A YOUNG HOPI.] + +Even more interesting than Acoma, from an architectural standpoint, +is the pyramid pueblo of Taos (pronounced as though it were spelled +“_tous_,” if you 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 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 if there is a +surplus of hay or grain it is sold by the community. + +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 _cacique_, whose word is law with a capital L. +Associated with him is a council of wise men called _mayores_, 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 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. + +[Illustration: _From a photograph by A. C. Vroman._ + +THE PYRAMID-PUEBLO OF TAOS. + +“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.”] + +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 _mayores_ +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. + +“Who is she? What’s the matter?” I asked Kill Hi. + +“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.” + +“But what are they going to do with her?” + +“Oh, I don’ know. Dump her out in desert, mebbe.” + +“But what will happen to her?” I persisted. “Won’t she starve to death?” + +“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.” + +He was quite right—they certainly are _not_. + + + + +III + +CHOPPING A PATH TO TO-MORROW + + “We’re the men that always march a bit before + Though we cannot tell the reason for the same; + We’re the fools that pick the lock that holds the door— + Play and lose and pay the candle for the game. + There’s no blaze nor trail nor roadway where we go; + There’s no painted post to point the right-of-way, + But we swing our sweat-grained helves and we chop a path ourselves + To To-morrow from the land of Yesterday.” + + + + +III + +CHOPPING A PATH TO TO-MORROW + + +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. + +“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, 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. + +It required scant finesse to engage one of the lemonade drinkers in +amicable and illuminating conversation. + +“Round-up hereabouts?” I inquired, by way of making an opening. + +“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.” + +“With the what?” I queried. + +“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?” + +I admitted that I was, adding that my bag was labelled “New York.” + +“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 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.” + +[Illustration: THE PASSING OF THE PUNCHER. + +“Cowboys cavorting in front of cinematographs instead of corralling +cattle—that’s what civilisation has done for Arizona.”] + +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. + +It wasn’t much of a country, was Arizona, the first time I set foot in +it, upward of a dozen years ago. 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. + +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: + + 40 MILES FROM WOOD + 40 MILES FROM WATER + 40 FEET FROM HELL + GOD BLESS OUR HOME + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“But you’ve no water,” I remarked sceptically. + +“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 this soil’ll do the rest. Why, friend, this land’ll raise +anything—_anything!_ 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.” + +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. + +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, 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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 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.” + +[Illustration: _From a photograph by H. A. Erickson, Coronado, Cal._ + +WHERE THE ROADS RUN OUT AND THE TRAILS BEGIN. + +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.”] + +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 _arroyos_, 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 +_cholla_, 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 _sajuaro_, +often forty feet in height and bearing a striking resemblance to those +mammoth candelabra which flank the altars of Spanish cathedrals; the +octopus-like _ocatilla_, 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 _paloverde_. 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: “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. + +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 _forty-three distinct products of the soil_. 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. + +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 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 _twelve crops of alfalfa have been cut in +a year_. 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? + +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. + +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 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. + +“That isn’t snow, is it, George?” he will ask the porter, and that +grinning Ethiopian will answer: + +“No, suh, dat ain’t snow—dat’s ’Gyptian cotton.” + + * * * * * + +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 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. + +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 and destroyed, and the work +of civilisation which they had begun was set back a hundred years. + +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. + +Notwithstanding the fact that the area of Arizona 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 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. + +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 the locomotive’s raucous shriek, in a cañon of the Bradshaw +Mountains. It is a _dolce far niente_ 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. + +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. + +“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 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!” + +“And what happened to you?” interrupted an excited listener. + +“What happened to me?” was the withering answer. “Hell, what could +happen? They killed me, damn ’em; _they killed me!_” + + * * * * * + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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 +_are_ 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 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. + + * * * * * + +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, 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. + +[Illustration: THE TRAIL OF A THOUSAND THRILLS. + +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.”] + +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 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 +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. + +“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?” + +“Thim’s som uv Guv’nor Hunt’s pets from th’ Sthate prison,” was the +answer. “Most av thim’s murtherers too.” + +“My word!” exclaimed the Briton, staring the harder. “Isn’t it jolly +dangerous to have murderers running loose about the country like that? +What?” + +“Not at all,” the brakeman answered carelessly; “yez see, sorr, in most +cases there was exterminating circumstances.” + + * * * * * + +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, the cow-puncher is still to be found, +but he, like the longhorns which he herds, is rapidly retreating before +civilisation’s implacable advance. + +[Illustration: _From a photograph by H. A. Erickson, Coronado, Cal._ + +THROWING THE DIAMOND HITCH. + +“Out in the back country ... the old, picturesque life of the frontier +is still to be found.”] + + * * * * * + +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. + +In the shadow of the foot-hills, where the Santa 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 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 _padres_ who first brought +Christianity to Arizona, many of them at the cost of their lives. + +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 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.” + + + + +IV + +THE LAND OF DREAMS-COME-TRUE + + “It lies where God hath spread it, + In the gladness of His eyes, + Like a flame of jewelled tapestry + Beneath His shining skies; + With the green of woven meadows, + And the hills in golden chains, + The light of leaping rivers, + And the flash of poppied plains. + + ... + + Sun and dews that kiss it, + Balmy winds that blow, + The stars in clustered diadems + Upon its peaks of snow; + The mighty mountains o’er it, + Below, the white seas swirled— + Just California stretching down + The middle of the world.” + + + + +IV + +THE LAND OF DREAMS-COME-TRUE + + +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. + +Not much more than a decade ago two brothers, 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 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 (_selling_, mind you, not +merely being offered) for _just a thousand times that sum_. + +[Illustration: How Mr. and Mrs. Powell saw Arizona. + +“One comes upon it suddenly, standing white and solitary and lovely +between the desert and the sky.” + +SCENES IN THE MOTOR JOURNEY THROUGH ARIZONA.] + +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. + +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 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 _portales_, 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. + +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. 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. + +“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?” + +And I agreed with him that it was. + + * * * * * + +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 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. + +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. + +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 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 _tout le monde_ 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 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. + +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 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 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. + +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 _padres_ 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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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 _entrepôt_, 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, 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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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 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 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. + + * * * * * + +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 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. + +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 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 _caballeros_ and Mexican _vaqueros_ 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 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. + +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 _routes nationales_ 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. + +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 _Ramona_; 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 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—_and stopping_. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 _asistencia_ 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 _campanario_, 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 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. + +[Illustration: _From a photograph by Avery Edwin Field._ + +_From a photograph by Avery Edwin Field._ + +NOT IN CATALONIA BUT IN CALIFORNIA. + +“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.”] + +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 genial and personal hospitality +which was a characteristic of the Spanish _padres_ in the days when the +travellers along El Camino Real depended on the missions for food and +shelter. + + + + +V + +WHERE GOLD GROWS ON TREES + + “Dost thou know that sweet land where the orange flowers grow? + Where the fruits are like gold and the red roses blow?” + + + + +V + +WHERE GOLD GROWS ON TREES + + +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. + +“Halt!” he ordered. “Column right into line! Attention! Present ... arms!” + +“But who are you saluting, sire?” inquired one of his generals in +astonishment, spurring alongside. + +“The grapes, _mon général_,” replied the Emperor; “for do they not +represent the wealth and prosperity of France?” + + * * * * * + +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 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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + + * * * * * + +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 +_per caput_—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 +“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. + +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 +impression a stranger receives in a certain ornate hotel in Los Angeles +where he is charged forty cents for a sliced orange! + +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. + +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) 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. + + * * * * * + +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 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 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. + +[Illustration: A MODERN VERSION OF THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT. + +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.”] + +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 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. + +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 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.” + +There is one word that you should never, _never_ 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 _en masse_ 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 _are_ +infrequent is best proved by the fact that automobile, phonograph, and +encyclopedia salesmen find their most profitable markets in the orange +belt. + +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, 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. + +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. 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 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. + +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 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. + +“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.” + +I have shown you both sides of the orange question; you can decide it for +yourself. + + * * * * * + +Some one with a poetic fancy and an imagination that worked overtime +has asserted that Pasadena 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 _cielo sereno_ 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 _La Puebla +de Nuestra Señora la Reina de Los Angeles_, 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: + + “My Lady would remind you, please, + Her name is not ‘Lost Angy Lees’ + Nor Angy anything whatever. + She trusts her friend will be so clever + To share her fit historic pride, + The _g_ should not be jellified; + Long _o_, _g_ hard and rhyme with ‘yes’ + And all about Los Angeles.” + +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. + +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. 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 _pousse-café_ 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 _jets d’eau_ 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. + +The climax of a stay in Pasadena is the trip up 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 _should_ 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. + +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 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 +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. + +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 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. + +“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 blowing this +evening, you would soon have the Pacific Ocean at your front door.” + + * * * * * + +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. + +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 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 _Cabrillo_, 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 _mal de mer_ as that across +the Straits of Dover. + +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. + +Santa Catalina, which is about twenty-seven miles long, is shaped, +with great appropriateness, like a fish, the smaller portion, which +corresponds to the 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 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 _raison d’être_ 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. + +If you will glance to starboard as the _Cabrillo_ steams slowly into +Avalon Harbour, you will notice a 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 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. + +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. + +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 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 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. + +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. + +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 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? + + + + +VI + +THE COAST OF FAIRYLAND + + “All in the golden weather, forth let us ride to-day, + You and I together on the King’s Highway. + The blue skies above us, and below the shining sea; + There’s many a road to travel, but it’s this road for me. + + ... + + It’s a long road and sunny, it’s a long road and old, + And the brown _padres_ made it for the flocks of the fold; + They made it for the sandals of the sinner folk that trod + From the fields in the open to the mission-house of God. + + ... + + We will take the road together through the morning’s golden glow, + And we’ll dream of those who trod it in the mellowed long ago; + We will stop at the Missions where the sleeping _padres_ lay, + And we’ll bend a knee above them for their souls’ sake to pray. + + We’ll ride through the valleys where the blossom’s on the tree, + Through the orchards and the meadows with the bird and the bee, + And we’ll take the rising hills where the manzanitas grow, + Past the grey tails of waterfalls where blue violets blow. + + Old conquistadores, O brown priests and all, + Give us your ghosts for company when night begins to fall; + There’s many a road to travel, but it’s this road to-day, + With the breath of God above us on the King’s Highway.” + + + + +VI + +THE COAST OF FAIRYLAND + + +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. + +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 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 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 _nuances_ 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. + +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. + +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 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 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. + + * * * * * + +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 _padres_ 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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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 _albergo_ 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: + +“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. + +“_Si, si, signor_,” he assured me, and shoved off with his long oar. + +Four times we rowed up and down the Guidecca without my being able to +locate my beloved little hotel. + +“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 _prix fixe_ or _à la carte_. Music every +evening.” + +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. + + * * * * * + +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 _barrancas_, 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 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. + +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—_Muchas gracias, Señor_. 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 front of that building and toss an orange into the _patio_ 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. + +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 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. + +[Illustration: “Even the imposing façade of the Arlington, with its +arches, cloisters, terraces, and _campanarios_, suggests a Spanish +monastery.” + +“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.” + +SANTA BARBARA. A CITY OF CONTRASTS.] + +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 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. + +The ancient mission, which with the climate is Santa Barbara’s chief +attraction, provides the _motif_ 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 _campanarios_, 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 _thé dansant_, comes up and hits +you in the eye. + +[Illustration: THE MISSION OF SANTA BARBARA. + +“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.”] + +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. + +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 _San Salvador_ and the _Vittoria_, the little caravels in +which Juan Rodrigues Cabrillo, 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. + + * * * * * + +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 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. + +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 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 _cul-de-sac_. 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. + +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; 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 _less than one half of one per +cent_! 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, atop his wagon. +“He was that parched that his head cracked open over the top,” said a man +who saw the body. + +But in October, strange as it may seem, Death Valley becomes a dreamy, +balmy, _dolce far niente_ 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 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. + +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 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. + + * * * * * + +From Santa Barbara, El Camino Real, ever glowing, ever luring, bids +_adios_ 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 (_gaviota_, 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. + +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 _padres_ ran when, a century +ago, they walked between the missions, so that it was with peculiar +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 _convento’s_ 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. + +“What was this umbrella used for, father?” I inquired. + +“That, my son,” said Padre Alejandro, “was used by the _padres_ to shield +themselves from the sun on their journeys between the missions, for they +were not 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.” + +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. + +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 _fondas_ 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 _à la Espagnole_, 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. + +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 _castillo_ 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 days, you can see on the harbour bottom +the bleached and whitened bones of the frigate _Natalia_, 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 _fiestas_ 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. + +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 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. + +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 _padre-presidente_ preferred Carmel over the +hill to all his other missions, however, and it was there, where the +Carmel River ripples down between the 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. + +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 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. + +The logical way to follow El Camino Real is from south to north, as we +did, for that was the way of the _padres_; so it was quite natural that +our next stop after leaving Monterey and its Mission of Carmel should be +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 _fiestas_ 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”? + + + + +VII + +THE VALLEY OF HEART’S DELIGHT + + “He touched my eyes with gladness, with balm of morning dews, + On the topmost rim He set me, ’mong the hills of Santa Cruz, + And I saw the sunlit ocean sweep, I saw the vale below— + The Vale of Santa Clara in a sea of blossomed snow.” + + + + +VII + +THE VALLEY OF HEART’S DELIGHT + + +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. + +“A few more voyages and I’m going to quit the sea,” he remarked. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“In the Santa Clara,” said he. + +“It sounds like the name of a Pullman car or a tune in the hymn-book,” +said I. + +“It’s neither,” said he; “it’s a valley in California.” + +“Tell me about it,” I suggested. + +“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 _me_); 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——” + +“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.” + + * * * * * + +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 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. + +“Fine morning,” I remarked pleasantly. “Wonderful view from this terrace, +isn’t it? And the sunshine is very warm and cheering.” + +“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.” + +“Where is your home, may I ask?” I inquired, for want of anything better +to say. + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“You _are_?” he exclaimed incredulously, and, leaning back in his chair, +he clapped his hands until the Arab waiter came running. “Garsong,” said +he, “bring us a bottle of the best wine you’ve got.” When the amber +fluid was level with the rims we touched our glasses: + +“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. + +“Friend,” said he, and his voice was husky, “here’s to God’s favourite +valley—here’s to the Santa Clara.” + + * * * * * + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +Barring the coast of Tripolitania, where it is 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 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. + +The _chef-lieu_ 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, 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.” + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 _padres_ 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 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. + +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 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. + +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 _fiestas_ 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, +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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 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, 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. + +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. + +Lack of labour is one of the most serious problems with which the +fruit-growers of California have had to 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. + +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, 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. + +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 _twelve hundredths of one per cent_. 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 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. + + * * * * * + +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. + + + + +VIII + +THE MODERN ARGONAUTS + + “For once you’ve panned the speckled sand and seen the bonny dust, + Its peerless brightness blinds you like a spell; + It’s little else you care about; you go because you must, + And you feel that you could follow it to hell. + You’d follow it in hunger, and you’d follow it in cold; + You’d follow it in solitude and pain; + And when you’re stiff and battened down let some one whisper ‘Gold,’ + You’re lief to rise and follow it again.” + + + + +VIII + +THE MODERN ARGONAUTS + + +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 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. + +“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?” + +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. + +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 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”? 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. + +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 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. + +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 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 +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. + +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, 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 _lire_ or _drachmæ_. 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. + +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 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 _bon +vivant_ 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. + +“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.” + +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 +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. + +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 _nouveau riche_ 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 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!” + +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 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. + +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 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 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. + +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 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. + +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 +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 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. + +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 +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 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. + +[Illustration: LAKE TAHOE FROM THE SLOPES OF THE HIGH SIERRAS.] + +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, 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. + +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 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. + +Truckee still bears all the earmarks of a frontier 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 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. + + + + +IX + +THE INLAND EMPIRE + + “I watched the sun sink from the west, + I watched the sweet day die; + Above the dim Coast Range’s crest + I saw the red clouds lie; + I saw them lying golden deep, + By lingering sunbeams kissed, + Like isles of fairyland that sleep + In seas of amethyst. + + ... + + “Then through the long night hours I lay + In baffled sleep’s travail, + And heard the outcast thieves in grey— + The gaunt coyotes—wail. + With seaward winds that wandering blew + I heard the wild geese cry, + I heard their grey wings beating through + The star-dust of the sky. + + ... + + “Yet, with the last grim, solemn hour, + Stilled were the voices all, + And then, from poppied fields aflower, + Rang out the wild bird’s call; + The glad dawn, deep in white mists steeped, + Breathed on the day’s hushed lyre, + And far the dim Sierras leaped + In living waves of fire.” + + + + +IX + +THE INLAND EMPIRE + + +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 _table-d’hôte_ 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 “C. P. R.,” having, as +they fondly believe, seen pretty much everything in California worth the +seeing. + +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 +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. + +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. (See end of book.) + +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, 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. + +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. 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 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. + +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. + +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 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. + +As a result of the Powers That Be at Washington 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. + +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 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. + +“I wonder if those soldiers were quite as careful in examining our brakes +as they should have been?” anxiously remarked one of my companions, +glancing over the side of the car into the dizzy gorge below and then +looking hurriedly away again. + +“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.” + +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. + +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 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. + +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 +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 _première danseuse_, over three +fifths of a mile of emptiness. + +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 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. + +[Illustration: THE YOSEMITE—AND A LADY WHO DIDN’T KNOW FEAR. + +“She balanced herself on one foot on the ledge’s very brink and extended +the other, like a _première danseuse_, over three fifths of a mile of +emptiness.”] + +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 they wear on ceremonial occasions. Upon questioning the Indian +woman who appeared, however, I elicited the information that they were +_chuck-ahs_, and were built to store acorns in. The Yosemite _chuck-ah_ +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 _chuck-ah_ 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. + +“What’s his name?” I inquired, proffering a piece of silver. + +“My name Wilson’s Lucy,” the mother giggled proudly. “He name Woodrow +Wilson.” + +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. + +[Illustration: In midwinter, when the Yosemite is deep in snow, skis +and sledges provide the only means of giving the baby an airing. + +“What’s his name?” I inquired. The mother giggled proudly: “He name +Woodrow Wilson.” + +YOSEMITE YOUNGSTERS, WHITE AND RED.] + + * * * * * + +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; _al fresco_ 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. + +A half-day’s journey south by stage from the Yosemite 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 _genera_: the _Sequoia gigantea_, found only in the lower ranges of +the high Sierras, and the _Sequoia sempervirens_, 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 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 _Texas_; you will agree with me, I think, that the Big Trees +of California need no circus performances to emphasise their proportions +and their majesty. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 _honk honk_ 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 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. + +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 a wagon and +had it hauled over hundreds of thousands of acres which he has since +reclaimed. He was an ingenious fellow. + +[Illustration: A “gusher” near Bakersfield spouting two and a half +million gallons of oil a day. + +The Kern River oil fields, near Bakersfield, Cal. + +THE GREATEST OIL FIELDS IN THE WORLD.] + +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 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. + +[Illustration: “We ran through a forest of tree-yuccas whose spiked, +fantastic branches looked as though they were laden with hedgehogs.” + +“Our progress was frequently delayed by woolly waves which at times +engulfed the car.” + +OVER THE TEHACHAPIS.] + +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 +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. + +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 +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. + + * * * * * + +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 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 _alpenglow_ 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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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, +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. + +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 _should_ 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 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 _au revoir_ 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. + + + + +X + +“WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON” + + “I hear the far-off voyager’s horn; + I see the Yankee’s trail— + His foot on every mountain pass, + On every stream his sail. + + ... + + “I hear the mattock in the mine, + The axe stroke in the dell, + The clamour from the Indian lodge, + The Jesuit chapel bell! + + “I see the swarthy trappers come + From Mississippi’s springs; + And war-chiefs with their painted brows + And crests of eagle wings. + + “Behind the scared squaw’s birch canoe + The steamer smokes and raves; + And city lots are staked for sale + Above old Indian graves. + + ... + + “Each rude and jostling fragment soon + Its fitting place shall find— + The raw material of a State, + Its muscle and its mind.” + + + + +X + +“WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON” + + +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. + +“Are we right for the Columbia?” I asked. + +“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?” + +“From Mexico,” I replied a trifle proudly. + +“The hell you say!” he responded with open admiration. “An’ where ye +bound fur, ef I might make so bold’s to ask?” + +“As far north as we can get,” I answered. “To Alaska, if the roads hold +out.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +[Illustration: THE OVERLAND MAIL. + +“With a rattle of wheels and a clickety-clack of hoofs the coach bore +down upon us.”] + +“That was perfectly wonderful,” said the Lady, with a little gasp of +satisfaction. “That was quite 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.” + +“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.” + +“I’m awfully sorry for them,” remarked the Lady abstractedly. + +“Sorry for whom?” I asked. + +“Why,” she answered, “for the people who can only see this wonderful West +on moving-picture screens.” + + * * * * * + +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 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? + +We were warned repeatedly, by people who professed to know whereof +they spoke, that, if we persisted in taking this unconventional and +therefore 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. + +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 +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 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“But we _must_ 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?” + +“A lady? God bless my soul! Why didn’t you 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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. 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.” + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +“Look!” suddenly exclaimed the Lady, pointing. “The shores of the lake +are covered with snow!” + +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. + +“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 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. + +[Illustration: Crater Lake: “It looks like a gigantic wash-tub filled +with blueing.” + +A flock of young pelicans on the shores of Lower Klamath Lake. + +IN THE OREGON HINTERLAND.] + +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 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 +_de luxe_. 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. + +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 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. + +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 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.” + +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, 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. + + * * * * * + +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— + + “Me that ’ave been what I’ve been, + Me that ’ave gone where I’ve gone, + Me that ’ave seen what I’ve seen” + +—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 the +lower deck of a chug-achug-chugging stern-wheel river boat. + +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 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. + +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 _kelek_, 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +“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, +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?” + +“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 +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 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. + +“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? + +“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, +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.” + +“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 _do_ know all about the +Danube and the Rhine.” + +“That’s easily remedied,” said I. “I’ll tell them about it myself.” + +And that, my friends, is precisely what I have just been trying to do. + + * * * * * + +“Next stop Hood River!” bawled the purser. + +“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 +_not_ the 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.” + +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 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 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: + +“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.” + +Which but serves to point the truth that foreigners are more appreciative +of the beauties and grandeurs of our country than we are ourselves. + + * * * * * + +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 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 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. + +[Illustration: “WHERE ROLLS THE OREGON.” + +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.”] + +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 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. + +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 +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. + +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 _Columbia, of Boston_, 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 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. + +“Portland!” shouted a raucous voice, far off somewhere, on the upper +deck. “Portland! All ashore!” + +I felt a hand upon my shoulder. It was the Lady. + +“Where on earth have you been?” she asked. “We have been hunting for you +everywhere.” + +“I’ve been on a long journey,” said I. + + + + +XI + +A FRONTIER ARCADY + + “Oh, woods of the West, I am sighing to-day + For the sea songs your voices repeat, + For the evergreen glades, for the glades far away + From the stifling air of the street. + + “And I long, ah, I long to be with you again, + And to dream in that region of rest, + Forever apart from this warring of men— + Oh, wonderful woods of the West.” + + + + +XI + +A FRONTIER ARCADY + + +“_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._” + +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 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. + +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 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. + +“How did you find the roads in the Willamette Valley?” inquired a friend +with whom we were dining one night in Portland. + +“We haven’t seen the Willamette Valley,” I explained. “You see, we came +round the other way.” + +“I suppose you’ve been down to Salem, though—nice city, Salem.” + +“No,” I was forced to admit, “we haven’t been to Salem.” + +“What did you think of the Marble Halls? Many people claim they’re finer +than the Mammoth Cave.” + +“The Marble Halls? Where are they? What are they? I never heard of them.” + +“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.” + +“No, we didn’t come through Grant’s Pass.” + +“Well, you surely don’t mean to tell me that you didn’t visit the Rogue +River Valley—the apple-cellar of the world?” + +“Sorry to say we didn’t.” + +“Nor the valley of the Umpqua?” + +“No.” + +“Well,” after a long and painful pause, “what in the name of Heaven +_have_ you seen?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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 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. + +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. + +The gates of the State Fair were thrown open the same day that we +arrived in Salem, though I do not 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: “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.” + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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 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.” + +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 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. + +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 its owner sixteen thousand dollars. Five +hundred trees yielded another man five thousand dollars. And I could +repeat similar instances _ad infinitum_. 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +From Eugene our course lay south, due south through a bountiful and +smiling land. We tore down yellow highroads between orchard rows as +precisely 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. + +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 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. 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +[Illustration: Trout fishing in the high Sierras. + +Salmon fishing in a Northwestern river. + +WHERE RODS BEND DOUBLE AND REELS GO WHIR-R-R-R.] + + * * * * * + +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 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. 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. + +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 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 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. + + + + +XII + +BREAKING THE WILDERNESS + + “They rise to mastery of wind and snow; + They go like soldiers grimly into strife + To colonise the plain. They plough and sow, + And fertilise the sod with their own life, + As did the Indian and the buffalo.” + + + + +XII + +BREAKING THE WILDERNESS + + +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 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. + +“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.” + +As we drew up in front of the gate, the farmer, taking a straw out of his +mouth, drawled: + +“Say, stranger, you might like to know that you’ve just come over the +most gol-damnedest piece of road north o’ Panama.” + +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 them across the river to Kalama. This will cost them five dollars, +but it’s worth it. + +[Illustration: A road near the Columbia as it was. + +A road near the Columbia as it is. + +WHAT THE ROAD-BUILDERS HAVE DONE IN WASHINGTON.] + +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.” + +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 +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.” + +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,” 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 _arroyos secos_ 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. + +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. + +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 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. + +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 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 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. + +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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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 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 _nouveau riche_, 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. + +Seattle is the natural portal to the Puget Sound 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. + +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, +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. + +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 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 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. + +[Illustration: THE UNEXPLORED OLYMPICS. + +A forest fire sweeping across the flanks of the Olympic range near Lake +Chelan. In the foreground is a sea of glacial ice.] + +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 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. + +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 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. + + * * * * * + +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 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 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. + +[Illustration: WHERE THE SALMON COME FROM. + +“It’s a great place for canneries, is Bellingham; I should think the +residents would be ashamed to look a salmon in the face.”] + +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; 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 _keep to the left_. 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. + +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 _rich_. 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. + + + + +XIII + +CLINCHING THE RIVETS OF EMPIRE + + “Up along the hostile mountains where the hair-poised snowslide shivers— + Down and through the big fat marshes that the virgin ore bed stains, + Till I heard the mile-wide muttering of unimagined rivers + And beyond the nameless timber saw illimitable plains. + Plotted sites of future cities, traced the easy grades between ’em; + Watched unharnessed rapids wasting fifty thousand head an hour; + Counted leagues of water frontage through the axe-ripe woods that + screen ’em— + Saw the plant to feed a people—up and waiting for the power!” + + + + +XIII + +CLINCHING THE RIVETS OF EMPIRE + + +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. + +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 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. + +“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.’” + +“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.” + +[Illustration: This settler’s nearest neighbour was fifty miles away— + +And he was a Swede farmer with a Siwash wife. + +OUTPOSTS OF CIVILISATION.] + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“And where, in the name of Heaven,” I exclaimed, “are you going?” + +“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 +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.” + +“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?” + +“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 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.” + +“Good luck to _you_,” said I. + +[Illustration: “Chopping a path to To-morrow—” Frontiersmen clearing a +town site in the forests of British Columbia. + +Law and order in the back country: the sheriff of the Cariboo—the only +law-officer for three hundred miles. + +BREAKING THE WILDERNESS.] + + * * * * * + +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 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. + +[Illustration: A heavy load but well packed. + +Even the dogs have to carry their share. + +A heavy load poorly packed. + +PACK-HORSES AND A PACK-DOG.] + +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, 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 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 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.” + +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.” 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. + +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 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. + +[Illustration: The Upper Fraser: “Streams of threaded quicksilver hasten +through the 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.” + +IN THE GREAT, STILL LAND.] + +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 _chef-lieu_ of the prosperous fruit-growing 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. + +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 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. + +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, 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!” + +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 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? _They drink afternoon tea!_ +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.” + +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, 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. + +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. _They_ are too busy having a good time. 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.” + +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 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 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. + +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. + +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. 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. + +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 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 _en échelon_. 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. + +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 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, _and are_, 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. + +Alberni and its bigger, busier sister, Port Alberni, 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. + +[Illustration: The Ark, on Great Central Lake. “Like its prototype of +Noah’s day, it is a floating caravansary.” + +A wolverine caught in a trap in the forest at the northern end of +Vancouver Island. + +SPORT ON VANCOUVER ISLAND.] + +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 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 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. + + * * * * * + +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 +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. + +If you will glance at the map at the back of this volume 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. + +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 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, 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. + +[Illustration: Indians breaking camp. + +Mr. Powell arriving at a frontier hotel in the Nechako country. + +An Indian bridge near New Hazelton. + +LIFE AT THE BACK OF BEYOND.] + +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. + +[Illustration: The bull train: the last on the continent. + +The dog train: taking in supplies to the miners of the Groundhog +coal-fields. + +TRANSPORT ON AMERICA’S LAST FRONTIER.] + +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 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 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 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. + +[Illustration: The pack-train: crossing the prairies of northern British +Columbia. + +The wagon-train: a settler on his way into the interior over the Cariboo +Trail. + +TRANSPORT ON AMERICA’S LAST FRONTIER.] + +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 +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 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. + + + + +XIV + +BACK OF BEYOND + + “I hear the tread of pioneers, + Of millions yet to be; + The first low wash of waves where soon + Shall roll a human sea. + The elements of empire here + Are plastic yet and warm, + The chaos of a mighty world + Is rounding into form.” + + + + +XIV + +BACK OF BEYOND + + +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 _chaparejos_ and sombreros; the mail-sacks, instead of being +carried in the 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. + +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. + +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 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 _Imperial Limited_ +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. + +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 “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. + +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 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. + +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 we +selected an equipment with as great care as though we were starting on +an East African _safari_. 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 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. + +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. + +“An eight-horse swing ought to haul you out in a fortnight,” he remarked +cheeringly. + +“What would it cost?” I inquired. + +“Oh,” he answered, “if you’re a good hand at bargaining you ought to get +the outfit for about a hundred dollars a day.” + +That cheered us up tremendously, of course. + +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. + +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 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 _chaparejos_, 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 for cartridges, +red blankets, ginger ale, perhaps a phonograph. + +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. + +The deeper into the wilderness you push, the more infrequent become the +mails, until, north of the Fraser, 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. + +“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 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.” + +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. + +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 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. + +[Illustration: A meeting of the old and the new. + +“The freight trains of the railroadless frontier.” + +“The rest-houses are built entirely of logs and occasionally surrounded +by stockades.” + +SCENES ON THE CARIBOO TRAIL.] + +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 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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“A hundred tons of hay!” I exclaimed, with pity in my voice. “Heavens +alive, man, what does that amount to?” + +“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.” + +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 _à la métronome_, 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. + +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 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. + +“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.” + +“You’re not a Canadian, then?” I asked. + +“Not on your tintype. I’m from Tennessee. Used to be a train-despatcher +down in Texas, got tired 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.” + +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. 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. + +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. + +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 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: + + “The camp at the bend of the river, with its dozen saloons aglare, + Its gambling dens ariot, its gramophones all ablare.” + +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 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 _eighty per cent of +pure alcohol_. 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. + +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 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. + +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. + +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 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 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. + +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 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. + +“Are you Mr. Rasmussen?” + +“Ay ban reckon ay am.” + +“And can you put us up for the night?” I queried anxiously. + +“Ay ban reckon ay can.” + +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 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. + +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 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 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. + +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 +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.” + + + + +XV + +THE MAP THAT IS HALF UNROLLED + + “Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on, + Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore, + Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon, + Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar? + Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking + through it, + Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost? + Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it; + Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.” + + + + +XV + +THE MAP THAT IS HALF UNROLLED + + +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. + +“Well,” he answered, figuring with his pencil on a chip of wood, “the +chain comes to sixteen dollars an’ forty cents, an——” + +“Hold on!” I interrupted. “Please say that over again. It must be that +I’m getting hard of hearing.” + +“Sixteen dollars and forty cents for the chain,” he repeated, unabashed. + +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?” + +“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’ll knock off the forty cents_.” + + * * * * * + +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: + + Flour 16 cents per pound + + Sugar 25 cents per pound + + Tea and coffee $1.00 per pound + + Butter 75 cents per pound + + Oatmeal 30 cents per pound + + Dried fruits 25 cents per pound + + Tinned fruits 75 cents to $1.00 per 2-pound tin + + Bacon 50 cents per pound + + Eggs (when procurable) $1.50 per dozen + (In winter they sell for 50 cents each.) + + Potted meats 50 cents to $1.00 per tin + + Bread 25 cents per 1-pound loaf + (Farther in the interior 50 cents per loaf is the standard price.) + + Potatoes $3.00 per bushel + + Chickens $4.00 each + +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. + +[Illustration: A Siwash lady going shopping. + +Half-breeds of the Upper Skeena. + +“Blackwater Kate.” + +SOME LADIES FROM THE UPPER SKEENA.] + +The population of Fort Fraser turned out _en masse_ 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. + +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 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. + +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, 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: + +“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.” + +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 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. + +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 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. + +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, 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. + +“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.” + +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 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. + +[Illustration: After the car had passed: a stretch of road south of the +Nechako. + +Mired in muskeg on the Yukon Telegraph Trail. + +Prying the car out of a swamp in the Blackwater country. + +WHERE NO MOTOR-CAR HAD EVER GONE: SOME INCIDENTS OF MR. POWELL’S JOURNEY +THROUGH THE BRITISH COLUMBIAN WILDERNESS.] + +“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.” + +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. + +“Where’s the nearest place that we can eat and sleep?” I demanded. + +“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.” + +“How far is it from here?” I asked. + +“Waal, I calkilate it mought be a matter o’ two mile an’ a half or three +mile.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“I’ll haul ye to th’ Hunderd an’ Fifty Mile House for fifteen dollars,” +he said. + +“Fifteen dollars for a two-and-a-half-mile haul?” I exclaimed. + +“Take it or leave it,” said the teamster rudely. “I ain’t got no time to +stand in the road bargainin’.” + +I promptly capitulated, for I had no intention of letting our only hope +of rescue get away. “Hitch on to the car,” said I. + +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 +_perfectly awful_ miles. Night was tucking up the land in a black and +sodden blanket when the driver pulled 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. _It +had taken us just eleven hours to make fourteen miles._ + +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. + +“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.” + +“Good Heavens, man!” interrupted my companion, “We can’t sleep +out-of-doors on such a night as this. Let’s see the loft.” + +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 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.” + +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, 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. + +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 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. + +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 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 _suite de luxe_. 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 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 _nuit du diable_, as our Paris friends would say. + +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 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. + +“By Jove!” he muttered despondently. “We’re out of gasoline!” + +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 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! + +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: + +“Is there any chance of our getting through to the Alaskan border?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +New Hazelton is in the very heart of northern British Columbia, where the +Skeena, the Babine, and the Bulkley meet, and in the same latitude as +the lower end of the Alaskan panhandle. + +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 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. + +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 +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. + +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 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.” + +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 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. + +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, 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. + +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. + +When the world was electrified by the news that 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 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. + +“How would you suggest that we get this mule out, Mr. Cataline?” he asked +politely. + +“Oh,” remarked the old frontiersman drily, “blowa de bug’.” + +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. + +“And where moight yez be goin’, Misther Flaherty?” solicitously inquired +his assistant. + +“To hell wid yer questions,” was the answer. “Did Napoleon always be +tellin’ his min where he was goin’?” + + * * * * * + +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 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 _sauvage_. 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 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. + +[Illustration: “Some of the cemeteries look as though they were filled +with white-enamelled cribs.” + +The grave-house of a chieftain near Kispiox. + +“Over each grave is a house which is a cross between ... a Turkish kiosk +and a Chinese pagoda.” + +SOME SIWASH CEMETERIES.] + +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 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. + +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 +village whose water-front was lined with imposing totem-poles. + +[Illustration: “Proclaiming ... the stories of the families before whose +dwellings they are reared.” + +“The Skeena might be called the Totem Pole River.” + +The base of a Siwash totem-pole—“the God of Love.” + +HERALDRY IN THE HINTERLAND.] + +“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.” + +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. + +Everything considered, British Columbia is, I believe, the finest game +country in the western hemisphere, bar none, for the sportsmen have as +yet barely 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 _rara avis_, +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 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. + +[Illustration: The Rocher de Boulé from the Indian village of Awillgate. + +The Upper Fraser at Quesnel. This is the head of steamer navigation and +the end of the Cariboo Trail. + +The Babine Range from Old Hazelton. + +A LAND OF SUBLIMITY AND MAGNIFICENCE AND GRANDEUR, OF GLOOM AND +LONELINESS AND DREAD.] + +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: + + “The last and the largest empire, + The map that is half unrolled.” + + + + +INDEX + + + Abbott, Judge, ranch-house of, 22. + + Acoma, New Mexico, 22, 35, 40-55; + antiquity, 44; + costumes, 52, 53; + church, 48, 49; + customs, 44, 55; + dwellings, 46; + funeral, 51; + graveyard, 51; + houses, 45-47; + industries, 53, 54; + paths to, 42; + people of, 42; + picture of San José in, 49, 50; + police, 58; + site of, 40, 41, 45; + symbolic hair-dressing, 54, 55; + women, 53-55. + + Agricultural College, Oregon, 315, 316. + + Agriculture, United States Department of, 98. + + Alaska, 381, 438, 439. + + Alberni, B. C., 363, 375, 376. + + Albuquerque, New Mexico, 13-16, 35; + agricultural possibilities, 14; + climate, 13; + commercial club, 14, 15; + university at, 15. + + Alcatraz, prison at, 218. + + Aldermere, B. C., 434. + + Alejandro, Padre, 179. + + Alfalfa raising, 9, 74, 75, 100, 260. + + Algiers, 190. + + Amargosa River, the, 174. + + “American Alps,” the, 217. + + “American Mentone,” the, 217. + + American River, the, 229, 230. + + American School of Archæology, 23, 25. + + Anacapa Island, 151 + + Anacortes, 344. + + Apple orchards, Oregon, 296, 297, 318, 319. + + Archæological research in the United States, 22-25. + + Architecture, California, 199, 200. + + Arizona, 31; + admitted to the Union, 79; + cities, 80; + climate, 83-85; + contrasted with Egypt, 71; + copper output, 81; + desert, 72, 73; + early inhabitants, 77; + effects of civilization in, 63-65; + game-hunting, 85-87; + history of, 76-79, 91; + irrigation, 70, 88, 93, 94; + misconceptions concerning, 71, 74; + missions, 91-93; + organised as territory, 79; + people law-abiding, 88, 89; + pioneers, 67-69, 79; + prison system, 89, 90; + products of the soil, 74-76; + progress in, 66-69; + two distinct regions of, 87, 88. + + Arizona Rangers, the, 89. + + Ark, the, 376, 377. + + Arroyo Hondo, 56. + + Ashcroft, B. C., 391-6. + + Ashland, Oregon, 323. + + Automobiles, in Oregon, 313. + + Avalon, Santa Catalina, 148-151. + + + Bakersfield, California, 259-261, 324. + + Banning Company, the, 147. + + Barbareños, 152, 153. + + Barkerville, B. C., 392. + + Barrancas, 56. + + Bay of Monterey, the lost, 195. + + Beaman, Judge, 150. + + Bellingham, 348. + + “Ben Hur,” 16. + + Benedict, Judge Kirby, 50. + + Benicia, California, 219, 220. + + Bent, Governor, 21. + + Big-game hunting, 85-87, 347, 451-3. + + Big trees of California, 254, 255, 257, 258. + + Bisbee, Arizona, 87. + + Black Hills, 81. + + Blackwater, B. C., 401, 405, 406. + + Blaine, 348, 349. + + Boar-hunting, 153. + + Bobtail Lake, B. C., 403, 404. + + Bohemian Club of San Francisco, the, 158, 202. + + Bohemians in California, 282, 283. + + Borax deposits, 174, 177. + + Bradshaw Mountains, 82. + + Bret Harte, 229, 230. + + Bridge built by Indians, 448, 449. + + Bridger, Jim, 56. + + British Columbia, 209, 355 _et seq._; + area, 358, 359; + character of the country, 362, 363, 453; + cities of, 363, 364; + climate, 361; + corduroying roads in, 411, 412; + cutting path through forest, 428, 429; + freighters, 398; + frontier, 389 _et seq._, 421 _et seq._; + game-hunting, 451-3; + government’s interest in settlers, 407; + Indians, 415, 447-451; + “muskeg,” 410, 411; + pioneers in, 385, 386, 390, 397 _et seq._; + prohibition in, 407-9; + railways, 378-382; + resources, 359-361; + roads, 411, 415, 416, 433. + + British Columbia Express Company, 391, 392. + + Brussels, restoration of, 17. + + Bryce, James, 299. + + Bunk-houses, British Columbia, 413. + + Bureau of Indian Affairs, 58. + + Burlingame, California, 198, 199. + + Burns Lake, B. C., 424, 425. + + Busch Gardens, Pasadena, 141. + + + Cabbage-growing in New Mexico, 10. + + Cabrillo, Juan Rodrigues, 147, 171, 172. + + _Cabrillo_, the, 147, 149. + + Caire estate, the, 152. + + California Debris Commission, 226. + + California, 160 _et seq._; + agriculture of, 218; + architecture, 199, 200; + Chinese in, 207; + climate, 157-9; + coast, 161, 162; + discovery of, 172; + dust, 159; + festivals, 201-3; + fogs, 159; + Great Valley of, 242-4; + hinterland, 240 _et seq._; + Japanese in, 207-210; + labour problems in, 206-8; + missions, 117-122, 179, 180, 183, 186, 195, 198; + orange groves, 125-8, 133-8; + popular misnomers, 216, 217; + rain, 158; + roads, 116, 132, 197, 198; + seaside resorts, 142-4; + summer climate, 157-160; + three distinct zones of, 157; + trees, 254-8. + + Camels, wild, 86, 87. + + Camino Real, El, 21, 108, 115, 122, 161, 178, 185, 197, 198. + + Camp Sierra, 257. + + Canada, agricultural invasion of, 357, 358; + motoring in, 348-350; + railways, 378-381. + + Canadian Northern Railway, 378-381. + + Canadian Pacific Railway, 378-380, 395. + + Canal at Celilo, 291. + + Cañon of the Macho, 21; + of the Santa Fé, 21. + + Cañons, 21, 23. + + Cañon’s Crest, 131. + + Cape Flattery, 344. + + Cape Horn, 232, 301. + + Caravels, miniature, 171, 172. + + Cariboo Trail, the, 391-9. + + Carmel, mission of, 183. + + Carpinteria, California, 166. + + Carquinez Straits, the, 219. + + Carson, Kit, 21, 56. + + Casa Grande, ruins of, 91, 94; + irrigation, 110. + + Cascade Range, the, 277, 285, 293, 295, 298-300, 310. + + Casitas Pass, the, 166. + + Casteñeda, 45. + + Castle Hot Springs, Arizona, 81-83. + + Castle Rock, 301. + + Castro, General, 186. + + Catalina Range, 85. + + Cattle-raising in New Mexico, 26. + + Caux, Eugene (Old Man Cataline), 444-7. + + Cave-dwellers, 22-25. + + Caves, painted, of Santa Cruz, 151; + Oregon, 324. + + Celilo, canal at, 291. + + Channel Islands, the, 146-154. + + Charles the Second of Aragon, 49. + + Chinese, in California, 207; + farming, 7, 8. + + Church, adobe, at Acoma, 48-50. + + Civil War, 79. + + Clarksburg, California, 223. + + Cline, “Dutch,” 439, 441. + + Cloud Cap Inn, 297. + + Coast Range, the, 241. + + Colorado Desert, 98. + + Colorado River, the, 99, 100. + + Colton Hall, Monterey, 183. + + _Columbia, of Boston_, the, 303. + + Columbia River, the, 273 _et seq._; + Indian legend, 293-5; + length of, 289, 290; + romance of, 292-6; + salmon, 302; + scenery, 290, 299-301; + traffic, 301, 302; + waterfalls, 300, 301. + + Commerce of the prairies, 20, 21. + + Commercial Club in Albuquerque, 14, 15. + + Contra Costa County, California, 219. + + Copper mines, 32, 81. + + Coronado, California, 103-7, 216; + hotel, 105-7; + Polo Club, 104; + Tent City, 112, 113. + + Coronado, Don Francisco Vasquez de, expedition of, 45, 78, 115. + + Coronados Islands, the, 146. + + Cotton, Egyptian, 75, 76. + + Coulterville, California, 256; + road, 246. + + Crater Lake, 285, 286. + + Crocker’s Sierra Resort, 246, 247. + + Czechs, 282. + + + Dalton Divide, the, 21, 22. + + Dams, Laguna and Roosevelt, 70, 88, 91, 93, 94; + Elephant Butte, 110. + + Date, the Algerian, 75, 76; + the Deglet Noor, 100. + + Death Valley, 83, 172-8; + borax deposits, 177; + climatic variation, 176; + effects of ultrararefied air, 175; + sand-storms, 176, 177. + + Decker Lake, 425-8. + + Del Mar, California, 117-9. + + Del Monte, California, 184, 185. + + Deming, New Mexico, 3-8, 13. + + Denver, 21. + + Depew, Chauncey, 84, 85. + + Deschutes, the, 287. + + Desert, Arizona, 72, 73; + Colorado, 98; + New Mexican, 36, 38, 39. + + Dikes on the Sacramento, 226, 227. + + Donner Lake, 233. + + Donner party tragedy, story of, 233, 234. + + Drain, Oregon, 323. + + Drowned Lands, the, 426, 428. + + Dry Lake Ranch, 282. + + Duncan, woodsman, 427-433, 437, 438. + + Dungeness, 344. + + + Easter pilgrimage, 129-131. + + Egypt, 71, 72. + + El Centro, 101, 102. + + El Paso, 21. + + Elephant Butte, dam at, 110. + + Elkins, Stephen B., 21. + + English in New Mexico, 12; + pioneers in the North, 399-403. + + Erosion, Acoma, a striking example of, 41. + + Eugene, Oregon, 317, 320, 323. + + + Fair, Oregon State, 312-7. + + Farms, New Mexico, 7-11; + Oregon, 314, 315. + + Feast of the Blossoms, the, 192, 193, 201. + + Festivities, California out-of-door, 201-3. + + Fishing, deep-sea, at Avalon, 149-151. + + Fishing industry of the Sacramento, 220, 221. + + Fish-wheels, 302. + + Flaherty, Michael, 447. + + Floral mosaic, 267. + + Florence, Arizona, State penitentiary at, 89. + + Folsom, California, 229. + + Foot-hills Hotel, the, 164-6. + + Forests, Sierran, 266. + + Fort Fraser, B. C., 390, 395, 399, 416, 421-4; + cost of provisions in, 422. + + Fort George, B. C., 393, 408, 409. + + Fowl, wild, 220. + + Fraser River, the, 391, 392, 398. + + Freight wagons, British Columbian, 398. + + Frémont, 115, 186, 228. + + Fresno, California, 256. + + Friday Harbour, 344. + + Frontier, the last, 389 _et seq._, 421 _et seq._ + + Frontiersmen, British Columbian, 440-7. + + Frost in the orange belt, 133, 257. + + Fruit-growing, in Arizona, 75. + + Fruit-packing industry, 205. + + Funeral Range, the, 173, 174. + + Furnace Creek, 174. + + + Gadsden Treaty, 79. + + Gasoline, cost of in British Columbia, 394, 395. + + Gaviota Pass, the, 178. + + General Grant Big Tree Grove, 257. + + Gila River, the, 9, 79, 83, 110. + + Gilroy, California, 196. + + Glacier meadows, 266, 267. + + Globe, Arizona, 90. + + Goat, wild, 153. + + Gold discovery, California, 79, 173, 224. + + Gold dredger, 230-2. + + Golden Gate, the, 241. + + Golf-links, California, 159, 185. + + Grand Island, 227. + + Grand Trunk Pacific Railway, 364, 378-382, 384, 408, 426. + + Grant’s Pass, Oregon, 323, 324. + + Great Central Lake, B. C., 220, 375, 376. + + Great Valley of California, the, 242 _et seq._; + irrigation of, 243, 244; + petroleum fields, 258, 259. + + Grove Play, Bohemian Club’s, 158, 202, 203. + + + Halleck, 183. + + Harriman, E. H., 284. + + Hawk’s Nest, the, 186. + + Heenan, the “Benicia Boy,” 220. + + High Sierras, the, 266. + + Highways, 21, 102, 108, 114-8, 161, 166, 197, 198, 215, 229, 278. + + Hillsboro, California, 198; + Oregon, 326. + + Holland, waterways of, 215, 216. + + Hollanders in New Mexico, 13. + + Hollywood, California, 199. + + Homestead and Desert Land Acts, 6, 323. + + Honey Lake, 279, 280. + + Hood River, 296, 297. + + Hopi Indians, 16, 47, 53-59. + + Horton, Alonzo, 108. + + Hot Springs Junction, 81. + + Hotel Arlington, 170, 171; + del Coronado, 105-7; + The Foot-hills, 164-6. + + Hund, John, 6. + + Hundred and Fifty Mile House, the, 430-2. + + Hunt, Governor George W. P., 79, 89. + + Hunting big game in Arizona, 85-87; + in British Columbia, 451-3; + in the Puget Sound country, 347. + + Hydraulic mining, 226, 230. + + + Imperial Valley, the, 8, 97-102, 110, 194; + agricultural products, 100; + highway into, 102, 103; + irrigation of, 99; + soil expert’s report concerning, 98, 99; + towns in, 101. + + Indian education, 47, 48; + legend of the Columbia, 293-5; + punishments, 58-60; + revolt of 1680, 19, 78; + settlement in the Yosemite, 250-2; + sheep-owners, 27. + + Indians, Palatingwa, 120, 121; + Hopi, 16, 47, 53-59; + Siwash, 415, 447-451. + + Invalids, in Albuquerque, 13. + + Iron Hills, the, 279. + + Irrigation, 5, 6, 8, 14, 30, 32, 70, 88, 93, 94, 99, 110, 225-7, 243, + 246. + + Isleton, California, 223. + + + Japanese in California, 207-210. + + Jewellery, Indian, 53. + + + Kalama, 331, 332. + + Katzimo, 40, 41. + + Kearney Boulevard, the, 256. + + Kearney, General, 19, 20. + + King’s Highway. (See _Camino Real_.) + + Kino, Jesuit Father, 91. + + Klamath Falls, 283-5. + + + La Jolla, California, 117. + + Labour problems in California, 206-8. + + Laguna, New Mexico, 35, 37, 38, 49, 50; + dam, 70, 88. + + Lake Chapala, 220. + + Lake of Elsinore, 117. + + Lake Tahoe, 228, 232, 235, 236, 264-270. + + Larkin house, Monterey, 183. + + Leland Stanford, Jr., University, 197. + + Lick, James, 147. + + Linda Vista grade, the, 114. + + Lisa, Manuel, 56. + + Long Beach, California, 143. + + Los Angeles, California, 142-5, 209; + harbour, 144, 145; + name, 139. + + Los Gatos, 191. + + Los Olivos, inn at, 180, 181. + + Lummis, Charles, 139. + + + Macdonald, “Black Jack,” 438. + + MacDonald, Bob, 442, 443. + + Machine shearing, 27. + + Madera, California, 256. + + Manzano Ranges, the, 14. + + “Marble Halls of Oregon,” the, 324. + + Marcos de Niza, 78. + + Mare Island Navy Yard, 219. + + Mariposa Big Tree Grove, 254, 255. + + Mark Twain, 230. + + Marshall, John, 229. + + Matilija Valley, the, 162, 164. + + Meadows, mountain, 266, 267. + + Medford, Oregon, 319, 323. + + Mediterranean Riviera, the, 161. + + Memaloose, the Island of the Dead, 293. + + Merced Big Tree Grove, 247, 256. + + _Mesa Encantada, La_ (the Enchanted Mesa), 30-41. + + Mexican War, 79. + + Mexicans, in New Mexico, 28, 29. + + Militiamen, Canadian, 372, 373. + + Miller, Frank, 121. + + Mimbres Valley, the, 6 _et seq._, 32; + climate, 8, 9. + + Mining, 226, 230-2. + + Miramar, California, 167. + + Mission Inn at Riverside, 121, 127. + + Mission Valley, 117. + + Missions, Arizona, 91-93; + California, 117-122, 179, 180, 183, 186, 195, 198. + + Modesto, California, 246. + + Mojave City, Arizona, 87. + + Montecito, California, 167, 199, 223. + + Monterey, California, 159, 181-5, 195, 216; + historic interest of, 182, 183. + + Morehouse, Colonel C. P., 150. + + Moricetown, B. C., 434-6. + + Motoring in British Columbia, 348-350, 372, 439; + in California, 113-8, 132, 166, 228, 261-4, 278, 279; + in Oregon, 320; + in the Yosemite, 246-8, 254. + + Mount Adams, 295; + Hamilton, 191; + Hood, 295, 298; + Hooker, 346; + Lowe, 142; + Rubidoux, 128, 129; + Rainier, 337-340, 347; + Shasta, 160; + Saint Helens, 295; + San Jacinto, 160; + Tamalpais, 219; + Topotopo, 163. + + Moving pictures taken in the West, 64, 90, 171. + + Muir, John, 249. + + + Nanaimo, 363, 372, 373. + + Napoleon, 182. + + _Natalie_, the, 182. + + Nechako River, the, 424. + + Nehalem Bay, 326. + + “Netherlands Route,” the, 217. + + New Hazelton, B. C., 380, 381, 428, 436-440, 443, 452. + + “New Helvetia,” 227. + + New Mexico, annexation of, 19, 20; + changes in, 3 _et seq._; + character of the people, 31, 32; + climate of, 8, 9; + desert, 36, 38, 39; + dress, 10; + farming in, 7-11; + fuel, 11; + industries, 25-28; + Mexicans in, 28, 29; + mineral deposits, 32; + prosperity of, 31, 32; + religious fanaticism, 29, 30; + settlers in, 10-13; + social fabric, 28, 30; + Spanish spoken in, 29; + turquoise deposits, 32; + water discovery, 5, 6; + well-digging, 11; + white population, 30. + + New Westminster, B. C., 350, 363. + + Nisqually Glacier, the, 338-340. + + + Oak Knoll, California, 109. + + Oceanside, California, 117-9. + + Oil-fields, California, 258, 259. + + Ojai Valley, the, 162-6. + + Olympia, 336. + + Oñate, Juan de, 19, 51. + + Orange groves of California, 125-8, 133-8, 257. + + Oregon, 307-328; + Agricultural College, 315; + apple orchards, 296, 318, 319; + caves, 324; + character of the country, 324-8; + charm of, 326-8; + climate, 327; + emigration to, 321-3; + farmer, 313-6; + a frontier country, 325; + hinterland, 275 _et seq._, 309, 310; + opportunities in, 322; + prohibition in, 323, 324; + railroad, 325-7; + State Fair, 312-7; + timber, 322; + towns, 308, 323, 324. + + Oregon Trail, the, 276. + + “Our Italy,” 216. + + + Pacific Great Eastern Railway, 379-380. + + Pack-train on the Cariboo Trail, 397. + + “Padre’s Path,” 42. + + Pajarito National Park, 22-25. + + Pala, San Antonia de, mission chapel, 117, 120. + + Palatingwa tribe, the, 120, 121. + + Palo Alto, 197, 198. + + Panamint Range, the, 174. + + Pasadena, California, 131-3, 138-142, 170, 201, 223; + Busch Gardens, 140, 141; + Mount Lowe, 140, 142; + Orange Grove Avenue, 140, 141. + + Pecos, the, valley of, 9, 32; + Forest Reserve, 22. + + Pelican Bay Lodge, 285. + + Pelicans, 283. + + Penitentes, the, 29, 30. + + Petroleum fields, California, 258, 259. + + Philip III, 147. + + Phœnix, Arizona, 80, 83, 90, 91, 93, 110. + + Pillars of Hercules, 301. + + Pilot Peak, 278. + + Pio Pico, 147. + + Placerville, California, 228, 229, 232. + + Plaza del Mar, Santa Barbara, 169, 171. + + Point Loma, 103. + + Polo Club at Coronado, 104. + + Port Alberni, B. C., 376. + + Port Angeles, 344. + + Port Mann, B. C., 380. + + Portland, Oregon, 202, 308, 331, 332, 341; + residences, 311. + + Portola, Don Caspar de, 195, 210. + + Prescott, Arizona, 80, 81. + + Prince Rupert, B. C., 379-384, 390. + + Prison system, Arizona, 89. + + Prunes, California, 193. + + Pueblo system of government, 58. + + Puget Sound country, the, 341-7; + a trip through, 343-5; + variety of sports and recreations, 345-7. + + Punishments, Indian, 58-60. + + + Quesnel, B. C., 392, 394, 395, 399, 401, 445. + + + Railways in British Columbia, 378-382. + + Rainier National Park, 338, 340. + + Raisin industry, 256. + + _Ramona_, home of, 117. + + Ranches, Californian, 242. + + Rasmussen, Peter, 412-4. + + Raton, New Mexico, 12. + + Redlands, California, 131, 132. + + Redondo, California, 143. + + Remittance-man, the, 400, 401. + + Rincon route, the, 166. + + Rio Grande, the, 14, 23, 110. + + Rito de los Frijoles, the, 23-25. + + River gardens, 221, 222. + + Riverside, California, 117, 120, 125-133, 136; + Easter pilgrimage, 129-131; + Mission Inn at, 121, 127. + + Riviera, the Californian, 161, 216. + + Rogue, valley of the, 321. + + Roosevelt dam, 70, 88, 91, 93, 94, 110. + + Roseburg, Oregon, 323. + + + Sacramento, 215, 224-8. + + Sacramento River, the, 215-227, 233, 241; + dikes, 226, 227; + fishing industry, 220, 221; + homes along, 223; + house-boats, 224; + reclamation of banks, 225-7; + traffic, 222; + truck-gardens, 221. + + Salem, Oregon, 312, 323. + + Salmon fisheries, 302, 348, 375. + + Salt River Valley, 93. + + San Antonio de Pala, mission chapel of, 117, 120. + + San Bernardino Range, the, 241. + + San Buenaventura, 162. + + San Carlos, Church of, Monterey, 183. + + San Clemente, island of, 151. + + San Diego, 97, 98, 102, 107-112, 117, 118; + advantages, 109, 110; + climate, 111, 112; + geography, 103; + growth of, 108; + highway, 102, 103; + history, 107, 108; + prospects, 109-111. + + San Francisco, 215; + Portola Festival at, 201. + + San Joaquin River, the, 221, 241, 242, 245, 256. + + San José, California, 196, 200; + mission, 195. + + San José, picture of, 49, 50. + + San Juan Bautista, mission of, 186. + + San Juan Islands, 343, 344. + + San Luis Obispo, California, 172. + + San Luis Rey, mission of, 117, 119, 120. + + San Mateo, California, 198, 199; + New Mexico, 29. + + San Pedro, harbour of, 144, 145. + + _San Salvador_, the, 171. + + San Xavier del Bac, mission of, 91-94. + + Sand-storms in Death Valley, 176, 177. + + Sangre de Cristo Range, the, 18, 22. + + Santa Barbara, 166-172, 202, 217; + architecture, 170; + Arlington Hotel, 170, 171; + college, 170; + contrasts in, 167; + Old Town section, 168; + Plaza del Mar, 169; + State Street, 169, 170. + + Santa Barbara Islands, the, 146, 151-3. + + Santa Catalina Island, 146-151, 153. + + Santa Clara Valley, the, 8, 190-210; + air in, 206; + blossom-time in, 192, 193; + climate, 200, 201; + land values, 204, 205; + productiveness of, 193-5; + schools in, 196; + ultrafashionable colonies of, 198. + + Santa Clara Valley (southern), 262, 263. + + Santa Cruz Island, 151-3. + + Santa Fé, 16-21, 56; + governor’s palace, 16; + history, 19; + Mexicans in, 29; + name of, 19; + possibilities of, 17, 18; + scenery, 16. + + Santa Fé, Prescott & Phœnix Railway, 81. + + Santa Fé Trail, the, 18, 20. + + Santa Monica, California, 143. + + Santa Paula, California, 263, 264. + + Santa Rita Mountains, 92. + + Santa Ynez, inn near, 180; + mission of, 179. + + Santa Ynez Range, the, 178, 216. + + Saugus, California, 262, 263. + + Scenic Highway, the, 21, 22. + + Schoolhouses in the Santa Clara, 196. + + Seals, of Santa Cruz, 151. + + Seaside resorts, California, 142-4. + + Seattle, 202; + compared with Portland, 340, 341, 346. + + Sentinel Hotel, the, 249, 250. + + Sequim Prairie, 344. + + Sequoia trees, the, 254, 255, 257, 258. + + Serra, Father Junipero, 108, 115, 121, 130, 180, 181, 183, 184, 195, + 198, 210, 246. + + Servilleta, 56. + + Sespe Valley, the, 164. + + Sheep-raising, 26-28, 262. + + Sherman, 183. + + Sierra Nevada Range, the, 160, 232, 241, 265-7. + + Silver City, New Mexico, 32. + + Siskiyous, the, 324. + + Siwash Indians, 415, 416, 447-451. + + Skeena, the, 390, 394, 395. + + Skylanders, 42 _et seq._ + + Smiley Heights, California, 131. + + Smith, Captain Jedediah, 56, 115, 210. + + Smithsonian Institution, 40. + + Sol Duc Hot Springs, 344. + + Southern California, 97. + + Spanish dominion in Mexico, overthrow of, 19. + + Sprockets, John D., 109. + + Stage-coaches, 90. + + Stanford, Leland, 197, 210. + + Stevenson, Robert Louis, 183. + + Stockton, California, 244-6. + + Stony Creek, B. C., 415, 416. + + Studebaker, John, 229. + + Suisun Bay, 220, 221. + + Summerland, California, 167. + + Summit, California, 232, 233. + + Superstition Mountains, 93. + + Susanville, 277, 280-2. + + Sutler, John Augustus, 227, 228, 234. + + Sutler’s Fort, 227, 228, 234. + + Swamp and Drowned Lands Act, 260. + + + Tacoma, 336-8, 346. + + Tahoe. (See _Lake Tahoe_.) + + Tahoe Tavern, 268. + + Tallac, California, 232. + + Taos, New Mexico, 22, 55-58; + houses, 45, 57. + + Tehachapi Range, the, 97, 241, 261. + + Telegraph stations, frontier, 403, 404. + + Tennis Club, Ojai Valley, 164. + + Tent City, at Coronado, 112, 113. + + Tête Jaune Pass, the, 379, 380. + + The Dalles, Oregon, 276, 277, 286-8, 291. + + Tiles, Spanish, 168. + + Tillamook County, Oregon, 326, 327. + + Tingley, Madame, 103. + + Torrey pine, the, 118. + + Trail riding, 260. + + Trees, California Big, 254, 255, 257, 258. + + Trevet, Victor, 293. + + Truck-gardens, 221, 222. + + Truckee, California, 233-5, 268, 269. + + Tucson, Arizona, 80, 81, 92, 94. + + Tucson Farms, 110. + + Tuna Club, the, at Avalon, 150, 151. + + Tuna fishing, 140-151. + + Turquoise deposits, 32. + + Tyler, President, 296. + + + Union Pacific Railroad, 21. + + Universal Brotherhood, the, 103. + + University of California, Greek Theatre at, 202. + + University of New Mexico, the, 15. + + + Vallejo, California, 219, 220. + + Vancouver, B. C., 116, 349, 350, 363-7, 369. + + Vancouver Island, 345, 370-6, 442; + fish and game, 375; + Island Highway, 371-4; + motoring on, 372; + railway, 381; + scenery, 373, 374. + + van Dyke, Dr. Henry, 130. + + Vargas, De, 19. + + Venice, California, 143, 144. + + Ventura, California, 162. + + Victoria, B. C., 346, 363-370; + Harbour, 367, 368. + + Visalia, California, 246, 257, 258. + + _Vittoria_, the, 171. + + Vizcaino, 181. + + + Wagon-trains, 20, 21, 398. + + Wah, the brothers, 7, 8. + + Walla Walla, 295. + + Wallace, General Lew, 16. + + Washington, 331 _et seq._; + character of the country, 334, 335; + climate, 335; + land clearing, 334, 335; + names of towns, 333; + roads, 331, 332; + sign-posts, 333, 334; + water-power, 335. + + Water discovery in the Mimbres Valley, 5, 6. + + Waterfalls of the Columbia River, 300, 301. + + Wawona, California, 254. + + Webster, secretary of state, 296. + + Well-digging in New Mexico, 11. + + White Rock Cañon, 23. + + Whitman, 295, 296. + + Willamette River, the, 309-311, 317. + + Wood, Mr., 150. + + Wool industry, the, 26-28. + + + Yavapai Club, the, 81. + + Yosemite Valley, the, 246-260; + Indian settlement, 250-2; + Sentinel Hotel, 249, 250; + variety of recreation, 253. + + Yukon Telegraph Trail, 395. + + Yuma, Arizona, 83-85, 97, 98, 102, 110. + +[Illustration: MAP OF THE FAR WEST, FROM NEW MEXICO TO BRITISH COLUMBIA, +SHOWING THE ROUTE FOLLOWED BY THE AUTHOR] + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75697 *** |