Image not available: T. S. C. LOWE.T. S. C. LOWE.
of Golden Gate Division No. 364, of Oakland, Cal., also a member of the committee.
Following the course of Los Angeles River as we leave the “City of Angels” behind us, we pass for quite a distance through a fine farming country, where hundreds of acres of barley are being gathered for hay into great heaps and stacks.
“Brother Freet,” I ask, as we sit near the wide-open door of the baggage compartment looking out on the fleeting landscape, “do they feed their stock altogether on barley hay in California?” “Not entirely. What makes you think so?” is the inquiring answer. “It looks so from the fact that in all the arable country we have passed through since entering this State, outside of fruit and flower culture, I have noticed no other product than barley, with the exception of a few patches of alfalfa grass,” I reply. “You are right,” is the response, “so far as concerns that part of the country you have seen; although if you traverse the State from end to end you will see comparatively little of it. There are sections of California where abundant crops of corn are raised, but while it has never achieved distinction as a corn producing State, it is second to no State in the Union in its yield of wheat. The entire area of the State of Indiana would be insufficient to cover the wheat fields of California, which yielded last year almost 40,000,000 bushels; but speaking of barley, cut as it is in a green state after the grain has formed and cured for hay, it makes a valuable and nourishing food for stock, upon which they will fatten without additional grain feed.”
Since leaving Los Angeles our course has been upward,and now as we pass the little station of Fernando, we are close to the San Fernando Range, 25 miles northwest of Los Angeles and over 1100 feet above it. A tunnel one and one-quarter miles in length pierces the above-named range, and into this we now plunge. It is a dark hole, an undesirable place to be; our train runs slowly, and the cars become filled with smoke and gas that is almost suffocating; we do no talking and as little breathing as possible for an interval of ten or twelve minutes, when we again emerge into the open air and sunshine and breathe freely once more. We have left the scenes of agricultural industry behind us and again enter a region of unproductive sterility and aridity. We pass through the little town of Saugus, from which place a branch road runs to Santa Barbara, yet the country don’t improve. We are strongly reminded of the Colorado Desert: alkali dust, glaring sand, stunted sage brush, and cactus on every hand. The elevation here is about 3000 feet higher than the Colorado Desert, but the conditions seem about the same.
Midway between Saugus and Mojave we enter the western border of the Great Mojave Desert, which we follow for several miles; here we are treated to novel, interesting, and remarkable scenery. On the right as far as the range of vision extends stretches the vast Mojave Desert, with its lavish growth of magnificent giant cactus, many of them from 25 to 40 feet in height, with branched and bushy tops, from the centre of which in many cases can be seen protruding an immense pinkish bloom.
This great desert, with its wonderful and peculiarplant life, extends, we are told, away off hundreds of miles into Nevada and Arizona. On the left the scenery is different. You gaze off and across the great Antelope Valley, 80 miles in width, level as a floor and almost devoid of tree or bush. It looks brown and barren, but we are informed it is considered good grazing territory. The grass, though dead and dry at certain seasons of the year, like that of the San Simon Valley in Arizona, retains all its nutritious qualities and flavor, and stock feed upon it with apparent relish.
Owing to unfavorable natural conditions and surroundings, it is hardly expected that we will encounter a very extensive population, but what few people we do meet who are residents of the country are principally employees of the railroad company, around whose stations usually cluster a group of snug and neat-looking cottages built by the company for the use of the men and their families. Good water can be obtained at a reasonable depth, and wind mills are used for pumping. Patches of ground are irrigated and cultivated, upon which are grown flowers, fruit, and vegetables. Our train slows up and stops for water at one of these oases in the desert, and looking out the window I discover that it is quite a town. A number of our people have left the train and are looking around.
Alighting from the train in front of the station I look up and see the old familiar homelike name of Lancaster above the door. Everything bears evidence of thrift and good living, even to an almost empty ice-cream can that sits inside the waiting-room door, and which, with other things, is being inspected and investigated. Time is up, “All aboard” is shouted, we scramble on, and as thetrain moves off Brother Houston, who is fast in the ice-cream can, came near being left. At Mojave, another thrifty town of considerable size, where connections are made with the Atlantic and Pacific Railway, our train stops to attach a helper engine. After a delay of five minutes we resume our journey, assisted by Engineer Cain and Fireman Curren with engine No. 1808.
As we leave Mojave it is growing dusk, and by the time we reach the summit of the grade and stop at Tehachapi it has become quite dark. This we all exceedingly regret, for we are now about to enter upon the most wonderful and interesting 33 miles of road on the whole Southern Pacific system, where we drop from an elevation of 4025 feet to that of 672. Making the descent of 3553 feet requires an almost continual application of the air brakes, which heats the brake shoes red hot and makes the fire fly. We feel concerned and wish we could see. We know at one time we are going around a sharp curve and at another time pitching down a grade much steeper than usual, and very often we find we are doing both at one and the same time. We look out of the window on one side and see a towering mountain wall, so near you can touch it with your hand; we look out on the other side, and see nothing, only a seemingly illimitable depth, filled with darkness and uncertainty; and this is the grand, picturesque Tehachapi Pass, whose sinuous windings, devious ways, complex maneuvering, and bewildering curves compels the railroad to run over top and underneath itself, forming the extraordinary famous Loop.
We had heard much of it, and we all expected to see it; our only hope and desire now is to get safely awayfrom it and beyond it to straight track and level country once more. All good things must have an ending, and bad things can’t last forever, so the novelty and excitement of our toboggan-like mountain ride and its two hours’ suspense is over as our train stops at Bakersfield, where another change of engines is made.
It is now past midnight in Philadelphia, 12.50 A. M.; at Bakersfield it is only 9.50 P. M., but many of our people are retiring, for it has been a day fraught with pleasure and excitement, wearing both on the mind and body, and we all need rest and plenty of it to prepare us for the approaching morrow. “Captain,” I said, as Brother Perkins came down the curtained aisle of the “Marco,” while I was wrestling with a refractory collar button preparing to turn in, “will you kindly give me the number of the engine that is drawing us and the names of the engineer and fireman? I am trying to keep a record of the engines and crews that handle us, and I don’t wish to miss any.” “Certainly,” is the response; “we have engine No. 1417 that runs to Mendota, 140 miles; the engineer’s and fireman’s names are Cole; the Cole Boys we call them—good, lively fellows.” “With two live Coles in the cab and lots of them in the firebox, I guess we will reach Mendota on time,” came the smothered comment in a drowsy tone from the berth of Manager Wyman.
Awakened this morning about six o’clock by Mrs. S., always an early riser, who exclaims, “Get up! get up! we’re almost there.” “Almost where, my dear?” I sleepily inquire. “I don’t know where, but Mr. Terry,Mr. Brown, Mr. Horner, and Mr. Springer are all up, and they say we are nearly there,” she answers. I turn over, raise the blind, and look out of the window. “And Mr. McDonald says we’re going to have an early breakfast,” she adds, as she retreats down the aisle. That last information she knows will fetch me if nothing else will, but I’m still looking out of the window wondering where we are; thought at first we had lost our way in the intricate descent of the Tehachapi Range, got tangled up in the Loop, turned around, and were again entering Los Angeles.
What magic had been at work during the night? The world outside is teeming with verdant vegetation. Fruit-laden trees, rose-burdened bushes, green grass, and flowers everywhere. I quickly roll out of my berth and dress, or rather I nearly roll out of my berth while quickly dressing, for one inconvenience of this way of living is, you’ve got to dress and then get out of bed, watching yourself very closely that you don’t involuntarily get out before you’re ready, for when, with one leg in your pants and about to put the other one in, your car hits a curve,look out.
The first person I meet as I enter the smoker is the conductor who is running the train. “Good morning, captain; where are we?” I ask. “We are entering Port Costa, 25 miles from Oakland,” he answers. “Have you time to give me the number of your engine and the names of your crew?” I inquire, with every-ready notebook in hand, as he was about turning away, for the train is stopping at the station. “We left Mendota this morning at two o’clock with engine No. 1408, Engineer Edwards, Fireman Duran, Brakemen Owen and Todd,
Image not available: GEORGE W. BROWN, OF THE COMMITTEE.GEORGE W. BROWN, OF THE COMMITTEE.
and my name is Schu,” he hurriedly said as he left the car and enters the telegraph office. In a short time Conductor Schu comes out of the office with train orders and our train is soon on its way again.
At 10.30 A. M. Eastern (7.30 Pacific) we reach Oakland (Sixteenth Street), where we lay for an hour and a half. It is a tedious wait. We cannot leave the train, for we do not know at what minute it might conclude to go, and none of us want to get left. We stroll around, first on one side of the train and then on the other, keeping one eye on it for fear it will get away from us and careful not to get too far out of its reach. We can see that Oakland is a large and beautiful city, and learn that it has a population of 60,000 inhabitants; a place where flowers bloom on the lawns, fruits mature in the orchards, vegetables grow in the gardens, and grains are harvested in the fields each and every month in the year. It has mountain scenery back of it and an ocean view in front of it; another blooming paradise where desolating storms are unknown and frosts and snows are never seen.
Finding our train about to move we all get aboard and in a few minutes are landed at Oakland Pier, where we wait half an hour for a boat to convey us eight miles across the bay to San Francisco. We employ the time in looking about the large, commodious waiting room that overlooks the harbor. We can’t help noticing that this apartment contains something that is never seen in a station waiting room on the Pennsylvania Railroad system. A profusion of advertisements of all kinds literally cover the walls, and occupying a space in the centre of the floor is a large glass case containing apyramid of bottles filled with liquors of various kinds and brands, advertising the goods of a whiskey firm down on Front Street. It is needless to say that there is a railing around the exhibit and the door of the case is locked. One of the ticket collectors, an active old gentleman, quick in his movements as a boy, informs us that he has been in his present position for nineteen years; and although seventy years old, the climate is so healthy he feels that he is growing younger every day.
It is announced that the boat is now ready, and we “walk the plank” leading to the deck of the “Oakland,” which is soon plowing a furrow in the waters of the bay as she heads for the “Queen City” of the Pacific. It is not such a boat ride as one can term “lovely”; it is not even agreeable. A chilly gale sweeps the deck that almost lifts you off your feet. “Golly, it’s worse than a trip from Camden to Philadelphia in December,” exclaims Brother Goff, as he turns up the collar of his coat. “Or one from Jersey City to New York in February,” adds Brother McKernan, seeking refuge behind a post. The most of us retire to the more comfortable quarters of the cabin, where we find enjoyment in viewing from the windows the immense bay and harbor, where are anchored hundreds of vessels of all kinds and sizes. As the “Oakland” pokes her nose against the San Francisco dock I look at my watch; it is 9.55 A. M., Pacific time. We have just been twenty minutes coming across. A speed of a mile in two and a half minutes is a pretty lively gait for a ferryboat, but we are told the “Oakland” does it every trip. Under the escort of Brother Perkins, we are loaded into cable cars and start on our way to Sutro Garden and Golden Gate Park.
I believe there’s hardly three squares of a level street in the whole city of San Francisco. Such hills as we go up and such hills as we go down we never saw in any city before. “Why, this is ten times worse than Baltimore, and it’s bad enough, dear knows,” exclaims Mrs. Kalkman as she catches Brother Cohee around the neck to save herself from falling off the seat as the car shoots up an unusually steep acclivity. “Here, here, don’t be so affectionate; Brother Kalkman and Mrs. Cohee are looking at you,” warns Brother Cohee. “As if I’d hug you on purpose,” she retorts, giving him a look of scorn. In many streets a horse and wagon has never been seen; it would be impossible for a horse to draw a wagon up those abrupt granite-paved hills. With the cable car almost on end, we are descending one of those “shoot the chute” like declivities extending for about three blocks, when I overhear a passenger, evidently a resident of the neighborhood, say to Mrs. Shaw, who has “struck up” a conversation with her, “We had a fire here in our neighborhood a short time ago, and a driver of one of the fire engines tried to bring it down this hill, when one of the horses fell down and the engine ran over it and killed it, and it broke the engine all up and hurt the man; it was just awful.” The car stops at the next corner and the woman gets off; glancing back at the hill we have just descended her closing words, “just awful,” strike me as being very appropriate.
A few squares further and we abandon the cable cars and take a little steam road called the “Ferries and Cliff” Railroad that carries us to Sutro Park and bathing pavilion, owned by Adolph Sutro, a retired millionaire merchant of San Francisco, and to the celebratedCliff House, near which are the far-famed Seal Rocks. We wandered for a time through the beautifully laid out statuary, shrubbery, and flower-adorned grounds of Sutro, then to the great pavilion, that not only contains a large museum of interesting relics and curiosities, but it is here that the noted Sutro baths are located, said to be the finest equipped artificial bathing pools in the world.
We cannot stand the temptation, and soon many of us are robed in bathing suits and are diving, plunging, rolling, and splashing in the salt waters of the Pacific, brought here and warmed to the proper temperature, permitting bathing to be indulged in the entire year. It is needless to say that we have lots of sport, and those who decline to indulge will regret it. There are several strangers in the pool, and Brother Sheppard has taken quite a fancy to one young fellow, whom he is trying to learn to swim and dive. In an adjoining pool is rather a forlorn-looking duck; it must be tame, for it is quietly swimming around undisturbed by the noise we make. “I think it’s hungry,” says Brother McCarty, “I wish I had some crumbs.” The creature must have heard him, for we imagine it gave him a grateful look.
From the baths we go to the Cliff House, and from the windows of the inclosed balcony, that almost overhangs the waves that dash and roar on the rocks beneath, we watch with interest the monster seals that by the hundreds climb and crawl and slip and slide over the crags that rise from the bay, while we regale ourselves with pork and beans and coffee. There is a strong, chilly wind blowing, and we do not tarry long on the bluff outside that overlooks the bay and seals.
Image not available: NEW CLIFF HOUSE AND SEAL ROCKS, SAN FRANCISCO.NEW CLIFF HOUSE AND SEAL ROCKS, SAN FRANCISCO.
It is twenty minutes past two as we get aboard a train on the Park and Ocean Railroad that will convey us to Golden Gate Park. We do not find this world-famed park very different in appearance from other parks we have seen. It is all nice—very nice; beautiful trees and plants and shrubbery, velvety green grass and bright blooming flowers, fine fountains and lakes of shimmering water. All this we see and enjoy, but we have seen the like before, time and time again. Some are bold enough to so express themselves, and it catches Brother Perkins’ ear, who good-naturedly says, “My dear friends, there is but one Golden Gate Park in all the world. There are 1040 acres here of as fine a park as there is anywhere under the sun, and when we consider that 25 years ago this was all a barren tract of drifting sand hills, that everything you see growing has been planted and is kept alive and green and blooming by a regular and almost constant application of water, when you remember this, then you will feel and think that this park is a little different from any other that you have seen.”
We had already commenced to think it was. Amongst groves of trees are great inclosures containing native buffalo, elk, and deer, with so much room to roam that they hardly feel the restraint of captivity. We enter the immense aviaries, where many varieties of birds and squirrels flit and chirp and scamper and chatter with all the freedom and unconcern of an unlimited out-door life. As we leave this great cage with its sprightly, vociferous occupants I hear Brother Reilly say, “McCarty has got a ‘mash.’ ” I don’t quite know what it is that Brother McCarty has got, but suppose it is someescaped animal or bird he has captured. I turn and look, to find him surrounded by ladies of our party, who seem to be trying to protect him from impending harm. Looking closer, I see disappearing among the shrubbery McCarty’s “mash,” the cause of all the trouble, and it is only the poor bedraggled duck of Sutro’s bath that Brother McCarty had thought looked hungry, and our ladies had scared it off. Brother Reagan would have recaptured it but for Miss Ella’s restraining hand, and the curiosity is lost.
We are all pretty tired when at last the street cars are boarded and we are on our way to the ferry. Some are going to return to our train, which lies in Oakland, and some will remain in this city. Mrs. S. and myself called on Mrs. David Chambers, who, with her son and daughter, Willie and Effie, live on Mission Street. Years ago Mrs. Chambers and her family were neighbors to us in West Chester, Pa. Willie, when but a lad, was advised to try the climate of the Pacific coast for his health. He found both health and lucrative employment. Ten years ago he sent East for his mother and sister. We find them to-day enjoying excellent health and nicely and comfortably fixed. We are given a warm, cordial welcome and persuaded to spend the night with them.
In the evening after dinner Willie took me out to see the town. The ladies declined to go, preferring to remain indoors and talk over old times. Met Leslie Collom, a young gentleman friend of the Chambers’, but he having other engagements could not go. Willie knows the town and I follow where he leads. It has long been a desire with me to see San Francisco’s
Image not available: PARAPET, SUTRO HEIGHTS, SAN FRANCISCO.PARAPET, SUTRO HEIGHTS, SAN FRANCISCO.
“Chinatown,” and for three hours we explore its darkness and its mysteries. We do not attempt to go very far up and we don’t try to get very far down—we steer about on a level; but we see enough to convince me that Chinatown is all that it is said to be. You don’t have to ascend into rickety, reeking lofts or descend into gloomy, foul dens to witness their degradation, weakness, and misery; far back in dark, forbidding alleys and bystreets, which make your flesh creep to traverse, you can find them huddled together on benches and shelves, like chickens on a roost, enveloped in disgusting, stupefying smoke.
On our way home we dropped into a private museum and saw one of the rarest and most wonderful pieces of Japanese art in the world, a realistic, life-size statue of a man carved from wood. It is claimed that this work has been examined by learned scientific men, skilled in anatomy and physiology, and not a line or lineament of the skin surface of the human body has been omitted in this delicate, intricate carving. The finger nails are there and all the fine lines that can be traced on the inside of the hand and fingers. There are many lines on the surface of the human body that require the aid of a magnifying glass to discern; with the glass all these lines can be seen carved on this wonderful piece of art. It is midnight when we get home, and, thoroughly tired, we are soon in bed and in the land of dreams.
Arose this morning about half-past six, and after breakfast, accompanied by Leslie Collom, went to the Palace Hotel, where we met Brothers Wyman and Layfieldwith their ladies. Brother Wyman had planned a trip to San José and was expecting others of the party, but a number of them being exhausted, worn out by an all night’s effort to explore the length, breadth, height, and depth of Chinatown, were still in bed. The others were too much interested in the beautiful city of Oakland and its environments to come, for we hear the good people over there are showing them a royal time, the municipal authorities giving them the freedom of the city and the railway company the freedom of their lines. Finding that no others are coming, we six board a Southern Pacific train on the Coast Division, that extends from San Francisco to Monterey, bound for San José, a ride of fifty miles. Mr. Collom is a very much appreciated member of our little party, as he points out from time to time much that interests us. As the train pulls out through the city he shows us the church where Blanche Lamont and Minnie Williams were found murdered and a little further on he points out the house where Durrant, the convicted murderer had lived.
The road runs between the ocean and the bay and as we pass the station of Ocean View a broad expanse of the Pacific greets our vision. At Baden we get pretty close to the shore of the bay and follow it until we leave Burlingame, a distance of about eight miles. We pass Menlo Park and Palo Alto, when our attention is called by Mr. Collom to a group of low-built, red-roofed, substantial-looking buildings, a short distance from the road on our right, almost hidden from view by the trees that cluster about them. “That,” says Mr. Collom, “is the renowned Leland Stanford University, founded in 1885 by the multi-millionaire Leland Stanford and his wifeas a monument to the memory of their only child, Leland, Jr., who had died a short time before. Eighty-three thousand acres of land, valued at $20,000,000, was dedicated by a deed of trust for the establishment of this institution. Mr. Stanford selected the site for the location of the buildings, and the corner stone was laid in 1887, ten years ago. Last year the school register showed an enrollment of 1100 pupils. Tuition is free, both males and females are admitted, and the students are from all parts of America.”
As we leave Mountain View Station Mr. Collom suggests that we now give the scenery on the left of the train our attention, at the same time pointing out in the far distance a mountain peak, saying, “San José is 10 miles from here, and almost on a direct line with this point, and the crest of that mountain, 30 miles away, is Mt. Hamilton, where the famous Lick Observatory is located. It has an elevation of almost 4500 feet, and if you only had time to go up there it is a trip worth taking.”
Leaving Santa Clara Station we pass near a large, fine park, among the trees of which can be seen beautiful, substantial buildings. “That is Santa Clara Female College,” said Mr. Collom.
The train now enters San José, and we alight at the station. A “Vendome” hack is in waiting, which we enter, and are driven to that superb hostelry, said to be one of the finest hotels in California. It is situated in the centre of a beautiful 12-acre park, only a short distance from the railroad station. Not having long to stay, after a few minutes rest we bid the genial host good-day and start out for a little walk.
“We will return by the narrow-gauge road,” saysBrother Wyman, “if we can find the station.” “A man told me a little while ago that it is only five blocks over in this direction,” replies the Colonel, indicating with his finger the way we should go. “Yes, the narrow-gauge road runs through that part of the town, but I think you will find it farther than five blocks,” remarks Mr. Collom. “Well, we want to see the town, anyway, and we’ll take our time,” responded the Colonel. “This is a pretty large town as well as a pretty old one, is it not, Mr. Collom?” I ask. “Yes,” is the answer. “It was first settled when Santa Clara Mission was founded, 120 years ago. It has now a population of about 25,000, and is the county seat of Santa Clara County, one of the richest counties in agricultural products and fruits in the State. Because of the wealth of fertility surrounding it San José has long been known as the ‘Garden City’ of California.”
Sauntering along, with our eyes wide open for the sights of the town, and keeping as much in the shade as possible, for the sun shines very warm, we are getting all the enjoyment out of the situation possible; but things are becoming less interesting. We are all hungry and the ladies are becoming tired; we have already come seven blocks, and the Colonel says, “We are nearly there; but to be sure of it I will ask this man,” he adds, as a man leading a horse came around the corner toward us. “My good man,” says the Colonel, “can you tell us how far it is to the narrow-gauge railroad station from here?” “Yes, sir; ’bout five blocks,” is the answer. “You’re sure it’s not ten?” retorts Brother Wyman; but the man and horse, never stopping, were out of range, and the shot missed the mark.
“I’m hungry,” exclaims Mrs. Wyman. “So am I,” I add. “I guess we can all eat if we have a chance,” asserts Brother Wyman. “We’ll look for a restaurant,” says the Colonel. A walk of two squares farther brings us to the looked-for establishment, which we enter, and after partaking of a substantial lunch, I ask the man at the desk, and I try to do it without feeling or agitation, making just the plain, quiet inquiry, “Will you tell us, please, how far it is to the narrow-gauge railroad station?” “Five blocks straight ahead,” is the pleasant, quiet reply, as he waves his hand in the direction we are to go. Not a word from one of our party. I take a second look at the man to see if I can discover in that pleasant countenance the least shadow of deception; it is as innocent and guileless as the face of day.
We silently leave the place, and as we start up the street Mrs. Layfield, taking the Colonel’s arm, gently asks, “John, are we going to walk to San Francisco?” “Not if we can find the station,” says the Colonel.
We enter the large store of a wine merchant to look around, and are courteously treated by the gentlemanly proprietor, who gave the ladies each a bottle of wine. We have come four blocks and a half since lunch and are looking for the station, when suddenly the Colonel exclaims, “There’s the road; I thought that last fellow was telling the truth.” “But that’s not the road we want; that’s a trolley road,” replies Brother Wyman. “So it is,” admits the Colonel; “but there’s a man; I’ll ask him,” he adds, referring to a man in uniform who was leaning up against the fence.
“For Lord’s sake,” pleads the Colonel, “will you tell us how far it is to the narrow-gauge railroad station?”“About a square and a half,” answers the man, smiling at the Colonel’s earnestness, “Are you sure it’s no further than that?” asks the Colonel. “Quite sure,” is the reply. “How soon can we get a train for San Francisco?” inquires Manager Wyman. “In about an hour and a half. Where’re you from?” he answers and asks at the same time. “From Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Where’s your road go?” imitates Brother Wyman. The man laughs. “I’m unable to take you home, for I don’t go that far,” he replies, “but I can take you several miles and back through as fine a fruit country as you ever saw. I am waiting to relieve the man on the car you see coming, and in a few minutes I will be going back. The fare is only a nickel,” he adds, as a hint that we musn’t expect to “deadhead” it.
We conclude to go, to pass the time away, for we can easily get back in time to catch our train. So we get aboard the car, pay our nickel, and ride for several miles to a place called the Willows, which is the terminus of the road. Here is located an immense cherry orchard, where the crop is being gathered and crated ready for shipment to Eastern markets.
We are invited to help ourselves; it is half an hour before our car starts back and we have time to accept the invitation. The ripest cherries are the ones the packers reject, so we assisted the packers for several minutes picking out the ripe cherries and packing them while the packers packed the ones we didn’t pick. When we got tired of packing we quit picking, and thanking the good people for the treat, we board the car again and are soon spinning up the line among the apricot and cherry orchards, the trees loaded with fruit.
Arriving at our destination, we bid our friend, the conductor, goodbye, and in a few minutes we reach the much-inquired-for “narrow-gauge railroad station,” where we wait half an hour for the train. We find the track composed of three rails; and as though to demonstrate to us the use of the third rail, a freight train comes along made up of both narrow and broad-gauge cars. It looks odd, for it is something we had never seen before, and as the strange combination passes down the road the Colonel remarks, “There is nothing but what we may expect to see.”
In due time our train pulls into the station and we are soon seated in a comfortable narrow-gauge coach and speeding toward Oakland. There are many beautiful towns and residences located on this line, and as we draw nearer its termination this fact becomes more noticeable, the town of Alameda, through which we pass, possessing all the loveliness of a fairyland with its palatial residences and magnificent lawns.
Oakland, the “Athens of the Pacific,” is reached at last, and knowing how fascinating and grand it is and how royally our people are being treated, I am loath to leave; but our friends on the other side await our coming, and bidding the manager, the Colonel, and the ladies good night, Mr. Collom and I hie away to the ferry and across the bay, nor stop until we are seated in Mrs. Chambers’ cozy dining room, appeasing our appetites while recounting the incidents of the day. After dinner Willie took his mother, Mrs. Shaw, and myself out to give us a view of the city lights from “Park Heights.” A ride on the cable cars and several changes brought us in about forty minutes to the “Heights.”
From this high eminence we look down on a sight of unusual novelty and grandeur. Spread out far beneath us is almost the entire city of San Francisco, but the buildings are not visible, not one, only the millions of bright, star-like lights that enable you to trace the streets and mark the squares, and that twinkle and gleam from beneath like unto the gems that beam down upon you from above. We look up, through a cloudless atmosphere, and behold a firmament filled with brilliant, glittering gems; we look down, and see what almost seems a reflection of what we see above. Man, we know, is the author of all this grandeur that we see beneath, but as to the Author of that magnificence far above we can but speculate.
Willie sees we are growing serious and says we need a change, so he leads us around to the entrance that admits to the scenic railway, chutes, haunted swing, and skating rink, where for an hour we have a world of fun; so pleased are the ladies with the toboggan and the chutes that it is with difficulty we get them started home. We have had another full day, and when at eleven o’clock I find myself in bed, I discover that I am very tired. After the excitement and exertions of the day are over, when the tension and strain of over-taxed nerves and muscles relax and reaction comes, then you understand in its fullest measure the meaning of the expression, “I’m tired.”
Feeling that we need rest, and finding the full enjoyment of our need in the pleasant home of Mrs. Chambers, we do not go out to-day until it is time to leave
Image not available: JOHN H. REAGAN, OF THE COMMITTEE.JOHN H. REAGAN, OF THE COMMITTEE.
for the ferry, from which the boat will bear us to Oakland and to our train, which is scheduled to leave this evening at seven o’clock. Willie’s engagements had called him from home in the early morning. Mrs. Chambers, Miss Effie, and Mr. Collom accompany Mrs. Shaw and myself to Oakland and take dinner with us in the “Lafayette”; they are warm in their praises of the comfort and luxury of our train and our enjoyable manner of traveling.
The hour of departure is drawing near and the many friends we have made are gathered around to see us off. Mrs. T. E. Gaither, a former Pennsylvanian, now a resident of Oakland, presents each one of the tourists with a bouquet of fine roses gathered from her splendid, spacious lawn of ever-blooming sweetness. The inevitable “All aboard” is shouted, the last hand shake is given, and our train leaves behind another garden spot of grandeur.
So far as present indications point, our people have all made good use of their time and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. The kind brothers, of Golden Gate and El Capitan Divisions and the many good people of Oakland and San Francisco who contributed so much toward our pleasure are at the present time subjects of the warmest praise and most flattering comments, as incidents connected with our visit are being talked over and discussed. I hear Brother Springer telling in a pleasing and animated manner of a visit he and some others made to the palatial residence and grounds of Lucius Booth, Esq. “Mr. Booth gave us,” says Brother Springer, “the freedom of his magnificent lawn and park, that were beautified and adorned with all kinds,varieties, and colors of plants, fruits, and flowers. We were shown by Mr. Booth what he told us is the greatest curiosity to be found, located in his park, two strong natural springs, only eighteen inches apart; the flow of water from each is about equal. From one spring gurgles a stream of sulphur water, pungent to the smell and taste, with no indications of iron in its composition, while from the other flows a stream strongly impregnated with iron, but with no sign of a particle of sulphur in its ingredients. It is a puzzle to the scientific world, and naturalists pronounce it a ‘marvelous freak of nature.’ ”
I hear many of our people speak in the highest terms of Brother R. L. Myers, secretary and treasurer of Golden Gate Division 364, who devoted himself so faithfully and earnestly to the interests of our party. Brothers Maxwell, Reagan, Waddington, and a number of others also speak in glowing terms of the courtesy shown them by members of the Board of Trade.
We leave Oakland at 7.40 Pacific time (10.40 Eastern), attached to a five-car train called the “Portland Flyer,” which makes the trip from Oakland to Portland every five days. Engine 1793, in charge of Engineer J. Edwards, is drawing the train, which is conducted by D. H. McIntire; the brakemen are W. J. Mitchell and H. B. Stewart. A ride of 26 miles brings us to Port Costa, where the engine and ten cars are run on to the ferryboat “Salina” and transported across the strait of Carquicons to the old town of Benicia, at one time the capital of California.
The “Salina” is the largest ferryboat ever constructed, being 424 feet long, 116 feet wide, and 18 feet deep; itscapacity is forty-four cars and an engine, regardless of size or weight. So smoothly does the “Salina” run that there is not a tremor, jar, or motion to tell you she is moving. Engine 1793 will run us to Davis, a distance of 77 miles.
It has grown dark, a matter we always regret, for we never get tired watching the fleeting, ever-varying landscape. With prospects of mountains for to-morrow, we seek our little bed.
Arose early this morning while it was hardly yet light, not wishing to miss any of the grand scenery that I know we must be nearing. Very few of our people are up, and making my way to the smoker I find the conductor who is running the train. He is a newcomer, an entire stranger, but I find him a very agreeable gentleman. “Where are we, captain?” I inquire. “Well,” he answers pleasantly, “you are on the famous Shasta Route of the Southern Pacific Railroad, bound from San Francisco, Cal., to Portland, Ore., a distance of 772 miles. You have traveled about 200 miles in your sleep. We left Red Bluff a short time ago and are now approaching Redding, 260 miles from San Francisco and over 500 from Portland.” “Where did you take charge of our train, please, and what is the number of your engine and the names of your crew?” I ask; “I’m trying to keep a little record of things as we go along,” I add by way of explanation, as he looks askance at me. “I took your train at Red Bluff; have engine 1769, Engineer J. Clark. I can’t tell you the fireman’s name; my name is G. E.Morgan, and my brakemen are J. Cook and J. Duncan. We take you to Ashland, a run of 206 miles. It will be necessary for us to get a helper engine shortly, for we have uphill work through here.”
“What stream of water is this, captain?” I ask, as I look out of the window and see a large surging, gurgling, dashing stream of water that seems to be rushing past at a mile a minute gait. “That is the Sacramento River, a stream whose course you ascend for 307 miles and cross eighteen times between Sacramento and Sisson,” he answers, rising and leaving the car as the train slows up and stops at a station.
I follow, get off, and look around. On the right the leaping, tumultuous waters of the Sacramento throw spray in your face as you stand and watch them churning and foaming in resistless might as they sweep madly onward toward the bay; on the left is the station and town of Redding. Several of our people are up and out on the ground. We can see that the town is a thriving business-looking place, and the station is a neat, substantial building. Our engine is taking water and the men are loading the tender with wood. “Why do you burn wood instead of coal in your engines?” I ask Conductor Morgan, who is standing near. “For the sake of economy, I suppose,” he replies. “Wood is plenty and cheap, while coal is very scarce and expensive.”
As we continue on our way I am reminded of Conductor Morgan’s assertion that “wood is plenty,” for we see thousands of cords piled up along the railroad track ready for use or awaiting shipment, and all the hills and slopes and mountain sides within our range of vision arecovered with immense forests of pine and spruce. It is wild, picturesque mountain scenery and we all enjoy it.
Our train stops again, and looking out we see a name above the little station door that makes us think of home. It is the beloved, familiar Chester county name of Kennet. We notice that it is spelled with only one “t,” but it is “Kennett,” all the same. Stepping off, I see them attaching a helper engine and get its number, 1902.
As we start again I step on board, and entering the smoker encounter Brakeman Cook. “I suppose we have some climbing to do,” I remark; “I see you’ve got an extra engine.” “Yes,” he responds, “from here to Sisson is 61 miles, and in that distance we make an ascent of 2884 feet, at one point having a grade of 168 feet to the mile.” Passing Castle Crag we see in the distance its bald, bare bluffs and peaks of rugged, towering granite, and nestling in the shadow of the ridge can be seen its picturesque hotel, a resort where those needing mountain air for health, or mountain solitude for repose or pleasure, can find a safe, secure retreat.
From this point we catch our first glimpse of grand Mt. Shasta, 60 miles away. We stop at Dunsmuir twenty minutes for our engines to renew their supply of wood and water, and several passengers from the “Portland Flyer,” taking advantage of the delay, went into a nearby hotel and got lunch. A boy on the station platform with a large four-pound trout that he had just caught, and which was still flapping its tail, attracts the attention of Brothers Sloane and Haas, who want the train held four hours while they go fishing, but the proposition is voted down. A beautiful large lawn slopes from the Dunsmuir Hotel to the railroad, on whichtame mountain deer are browsing. Three miles from Dunsmuir we reach Mossbrae Falls and Shasta Soda Springs. Our train stops, and with cups, mugs, jugs, bottles, buckets, and pitchers we make a break for the fountain. There is plenty of water there, and oh, how cold and sparkling and invigorating it is! We drink our fill and fill our vessels and load the train, but it would not be missed had we taken ten thousand times as much. A roofed and stone-walled well that is inexhaustible is fed by hundreds of little streams and rivulets and jets that flow and spurt from the moss-covered mountain side, while here and there a spring more powerful than the rest sends its slender column full fifty feet in the air and then descends in a shower of mist around you.
Where is the artist that can picture the beauty of Mossbrae Falls, a mighty mountain side covered to its summit with giant pines, terminating at its base in a sheer wall a hundred feet in height, its face covered and festooned with bright green moss, through which descends in a silvery sheen of spray the outpour from a thousand gushing springs? From here to Sisson, a distance of 25 miles, our engines have trying uphill work. There are mountains everywhere, mountains ahead of us and mountains behind us, mountains above us and mountains below us, mountains to the right and mountains to the left, but they are not the bald, bare, treeless kind, for everywhere you look, except when you cast your eye to Shasta’s crown, you will see a magnificent growth of pines and cedars, shrubbery and ferns. You have always to look up or else look down. Looking up you can scarcely ever see the pine-clad summits, for your eye rests on the top of the car window before it reaches halfway up the mountain side; looking down you are all right, if you don’t get dizzy, for in many places you can look down upon the tops of the tallest trees a thousand feet below.
With breath of flame and lungs of iron those powerful iron steeds puff and cough and climb, and the long ten-car train, following their laborious lead, winds and worms in and out and around those narrow paths, traced and hewn in the mighty Sierra Nevada’s rugged sides by persistent resistless Progress, ever guided, ever urged by the indomitable will, restless perseverance, mechanical ingenuity, and scientific skill of man. We climb and climb and worm and wind until Sisson’s heights are reached, at an elevation of 3555 feet, and then we rest awhile—rest to feast our eyes on Shasta’s indescribable majesty and grandeur.
This is the nearest point the railroad runs to that gigantic mound, and it is twelve miles on an air line from where we sit and stand to the glistening, snow-crowned crest of that mighty monarch. Why we should so sensibly feel his presence and he so far away is a conundrum no one asks; we only look and feel, and silently wonder what it is we feel. It must be awe, for that which is great, we are told, inspires awe, and Shasta is very, very great. Fourteen thousand four hundred and forty-two feet is the estimated height of this colossal giant that pokes his apex in the sky. Were it possible to grade him down or slice him off to one-half his height he would make a plateau 75 miles in circumference and 25 miles across; but it is time to go. The manager says, “Git on,” and bidding adieu to Shasta we “git.”
One mile from Sisson Conductor Morgan points to alittle mountain spring that wouldn’t slake the thirst of a nanny goat, and says, “There’s the head waters of the Sacramento River, which is 307 miles from where it empties into the bay.” The road now is making some wonderful curves and bends to get around insurmountable heights and across unbridgeable chasms. We have just finished a run of about eight miles, described almost a complete S, and are only one mile and a half from where we started. At Edgewood helper engine No. 1902 is detached, for it is now down grade to Hornbrook, a distance of 40 miles, with a drop at places of 170 feet to the mile.
At Hornbrook engine No. 1907 was attached to assist to Siskiyou, a distance of 24 miles, with an ascent of 190 feet to the mile. As we approach State Line we cross the old Portland stage trail, and at 3.03 P. M. Eastern (12.03 Pacific) time we cross the State Line and enter Oregon, having traveled 1136 miles through the State of California. We pass Gregory Siding, where two freight wrecks had recently occurred. The wrecking crew are still on the ground, having evidently just put engine No. 1503 on the track, for it is standing there as we pass, covered with mud. We here have in view Pilot Rock, a great bare bluff that stands out and alone like a huge sentinel guarding the gateway of the valley, and famous in the early history of this locality as the scene of stirring Indian warfare. Manager and Mrs. Wyman are on the engine enjoying an unobstructed view of this marvelous mountain ride. We have just had our last look at California scenery, for rounding a bend as we pass Pilot Rock, the last view of majestic Shasta bursts upon our vision, reposing in sublime and solemn grandeur 50