Image not available: ARIZONA LANDSCAPE.ARIZONA LANDSCAPE.
Image not available: “YUMA BILL,” INDIAN CHIEF AT YUMA, OVER 100 YEARS OLD.“YUMA BILL,” INDIAN CHIEF AT YUMA, OVER 100 YEARS OLD.
parts of their limbs and bodies painted and tattooed with bright and varied colors, increasing tenfold their natural ugliness, which showing to its best advantage, unassisted by art, is far above par. Yuma Bill, the biggest, oldest, and ugliest of the lot, seems to claim the most attention, and as I see him coming down the station platform and entering the waiting-room door, bareheaded and barefooted, with a bright-striped blanket about him, I think of Mark Twain’s story of his visit to the camp of Sitting Bull. “The old chief saw me coming,” says Mark, “and he came to meet me. I had pictured him in my mind as an old warrior covered with glory; I found him clothed with the nobility of his race, assisted by an old horse blanket, one corner of which hid his approach and the other corner covered his retreat.” Similar characters are Yuma Bill and his pals, and if ever “Mark” encounters them he will be strongly reminded of his notable interview with the famous Sitting Bull.
We all buy trinkets of Bill, for we never expect to see him again and we don’t want to forget him. We are told that he is a good old Indian, but was not always so. Years ago, when there were battles to be won, Bill made a record as a fighter. He will fight no more; there are only a few of him left; and Uncle Sam has given him and his comrades a refuge in a little reservation across the river where they hope to live and die in quietness and peace.
A short distance back of the station can be seen the territorial prison or penitentiary, on a bluff overlooking the Colorado River. We thought it was a fort until told that it was a prison. Our train is about to start,and we find a large car or tank of water attached on the front end next the engine and a freight caboose on the rear. We find that a freight crew has charge of us, that the tank of water will be needed to supply the engine, as there is a run of 120 miles through a country devoid of water, and that the crew will need the caboose when they leave us, for they expect to take back from Indio a train of freight. We have S. P. engine No. 1609, with Engineer W. Hayes at the throttle, fired by George McIntyre, Conductor H. J. Williams, Brakemen H. J. Schulte and R. M. Armour. As our train moves slowly off across the bridge that spans the Colorado we take a last look at Yuma and its picturesque surroundings, and in two minutes we are in California and crossing the Colorado Desert.
We are disappointed. We thought California a land of beauty, fertility, and flowers—a desert waste is all we see, bald mountains and barren plains on every side. Our course is upward for about 25 miles, until an elevation of 400 feet is reached, and then we begin to descend, and when we pass the little station of Flowing Well, 60 miles west of Yuma, we are only five feet above the level of the sea. Ten miles farther we stop at Volcano Springs and are 225 feet below the sea level. After leaving Flowing Well our attention was called by Mr. Steere to what was apparently a large lake of clear, sparkling water ahead, and to the left of our train, about half a mile away. We were running toward it but got no closer to it. It remained there, the same distance from us, a bright, sparkling, rippling body of water; not one on the train but what would have said, “It is water.” Mr. Steere says, “No; it is not water;
Image not available: THE CALIFORNIA POPPY.THE CALIFORNIA POPPY.
it is a delusion, a mirage caused by the glare of the sun on the shining salt crust of this alkali desert. There is not much doubt,” continued Mr. Steere, “but what ages upon ages ago all this immense basin was the bottom of a great sea. You can see upon the sides of these barren bluffs and upon those walls of rock the mark of the water line that for thousands of years perhaps have withstood the ravages and test of time. This little station is called Volcano Springs because of the number of springs in this locality that are apparently of volcanic origin. They are not in operation at the present time, but certain seasons of the year they are very active and spout up mud and water to a height of from 10 to 25 feet.”
A thermometer hanging in the doorway of the station, in the shade, registers 101 degrees, and it is not unusual, we are told, for it to reach 125. It is actually too hot in the sun to stand still; it almost takes one’s breath away. We feel relieved when our train starts and we are in motion once more. We create a breeze, a sea breeze, as it were, wafted to us o’er the mummified saliniferous remains of an ancient sea 3000 years a corpse. But the “mirage” still is there, a wonderful delusion, a monstrous deception, a gigantic “Will o’ the wisp,” whose alluring promises have led hundreds of men and animals a fruitless chase that ended in horrid death.
Sixty-five miles ahead of us we can plainly see San Jacinto Mountain, towering 11,500 feet in the air, with its summit covered with ice and snow that glistens in the noonday sun. Twenty-four miles from Volcano Springs we pass Salton, noted for its great salt industry. This is the lowest point on the line of the Southern PacificRailroad, being 263 feet below sea level. About three miles to the left of the railroad we see the great white salt marsh or lake, containing such a vast deposit of this useful substance that the supply is thought to be inexhaustible. Steam plows are used for gathering the salt, and the works erected here have a capacity of nearly 1000 tons per day.
Twenty-five miles from Salton we reach Indio, where a short stop is made to change engines. Indio is a veritable oasis in the desert. After miles and miles of desert dust and glaring sand, it is very refreshing to see again trees and grass and flowers. We are still 20 feet below the level of the sea, but good water has been found here, and plenty of it applied to the soil has worked wonders. Whatever is planted grows with rapidity and in profusion, and with an abundance of water Indio can look forward to fast increasing beauty and prosperity. It has been discovered that the climate here is very beneficial to consumptives, and Indio has already become noted as a resort for those afflicted with pulmonary trouble, and it is claimed some very remarkable cures have been effected.
We leave Indio at 4.15 P. M. Eastern (1.15 P. M. Pacific), with S. P. engine No. 1397. Engineer Ward Heins, Fireman J. A. Shanehan; Conductor Williams and his brakemen will continue on to Los Angeles with us, 130 miles further.
Soon after leaving Indio we ascend a grade of 120 feet to the mile and pass along the base of San Jacinto Mountain, with its summit frowning down upon us from a height of 11,500 feet. The snow can now be plainly seen upon its highest peaks, and rivulets and cataractscan be seen in places dashing and leaping down its seamed and rugged sides.
At Rimlon we get Engineer Eli Steavens and Fireman M. Anderson with engine No. 1963 to assist us up a steep grade to Beaumont, a distance of 35 miles.
At Palm Springs a short stop was made to take aboard some guests who came to meet us from Los Angeles. They were Mr. G. L. Mead, Mr. H. Kearney, and Mr. J. E. White. Mr. Mead is a merchant of Los Angeles who heard of our coming and came to meet us to bid us welcome to the “Paradise of America,” and to emphasize his expressions of good feelings, presented the tourists with a case of very fine California wine. Mr. Mead could have done nothing more in accord with the feelings of the party. No wine ever tasted better, no wine ever did more good; it is a medicine our systems crave after 150 miles of the scorching, glaring, waterless Colorado Desert; a right thing in the right place; it is appreciated far more than Mr. Mead will ever know. Mr. Kearney is a promoter of stage lines and is about to establish a route between Palm Springs and Virginia Dale, a distance of 71 miles. He is an interesting gentleman to converse with, being perfectly familiar with all the surrounding country. Mr. White is a transfer agent doing business in Los Angeles, and is on hand to render aid to any of the party who may need his services.
We arrive at Beaumont and have reached the summit of the grade. In the 50 miles we have come since leaving Indio, we have made an ascent of 5280 feet. Our helper engine No. 1397 has left us; and we commence our descent of the western slope of the San BernardinoRange. Mr. J. Jacobs, a civil engineer in the employ of the Southern Pacific Railroad Company, was invited to get aboard at Beaumont and accompany us to Los Angeles. We find him a very agreeable guest, giving us a great deal of entertaining information.
We have passed from desert wastes into a rich agricultural district; farmers are engaged in harvesting hundreds of acres of barley, which in this region is cut while in a green state and cured for hay. We pass many large fruit orchards of different varieties, while away in the distance on every hand the mountains rear their snow-clad peaks to the clouds. It is a grand and wonderful transformation from the scenes through which we have lately passed, and needs to be seen to be appreciated.
“This section of country through which we are now passing,” observed Mr. Jacobs, “is the famous Redlands district, a country that has shown far greater development and been subject to more rapid improvements in the same number of years than any other known section of its size in the world. Ten years ago it was almost barren, and known only as a vast sheep range; to-day, owing to a thorough system of irrigation, there are nearly 30,000 acres of reclaimed land that bloom and blossom and bear fruit with all the fertility, the beauty, and abundance of a tropical garden.”
We have now entered the orange district, and large groves are seen on every hand, golden with the luscious fruit. At Pomona a halt of sufficient length is made to allow several baskets of oranges to be put on the train, which are distributed amongst the party and found to be delicious and refreshing. We are unable to ascertain who are the thoughtful donors, but all the
Image not available: A CLUSTER OF NAVEL ORANGES, CALIFORNIA.A CLUSTER OF NAVEL ORANGES, CALIFORNIA.
same they have the most sincere thanks of the entire party for their kindness and generosity.
For 25 miles we pass through a fairyland of blooming loveliness, and at 8.45 P. M. Eastern (5.45 Pacific) our train rolls into the station in Los Angeles, five days, five hours, and forty-five minutes late. On an adjacent track a train is loading, and we learn it is the New York Central excursion about ready to start for home. We exchange greetings and cards with many of them before their train pulls out, bound for its journey through the heat and dust of desert and plain, for they return by the route we came, and we know what is in store for them.
We begin to realize what we have missed by thus coming in at the eleventh hour. We find we were saved from a watery grave in the raging Rio Grande only to discover that we are here just in time to be too late to participate in the “good times” all the other visitors have had. The twenty-sixth session of the Grand Division of the “Order of Railway Conductors” that we had expected to attend is about ready to adjourn; the pleasure trips planned for the entertainment of members of the order to all the surrounding points of interest have been taken, and we weren’t “in it.” ’Tis rather a discouraging outlook, but with the true Yankee spirit of self-reliance we quickly determine to make the best of it, trusting our future to luck and Providence.
Brothers Houston, Haefner, and myself start for Music Hall, No. 234 South Spring Street, where the Convention is in session, and arrive five minutes before its adjournment. We hear Brother Grand Chief Conductor E. E. Clark make his closing speech. Asthe members of the Convention commence to pour out of the hall into the street the greater part of our folks arrive on the scene, and for more than an hour an impromptu meeting is held on the sidewalk and on the street in front of the building, where old friends are greeted and new friends are made; everybody wants to exchange cards with everybody else; all are good-natured, good-humored, and happy, and “perpetual friendship” seems to be the ruling spirit of the hour. The crowd gradually disperses and becomes scattered over the city, members of our party mingling with the rest, seeing the sights and looking for souvenirs.
Brother Ristein received a telegram that had been lying in the Los Angeles office four days awaiting his arrival, telling him of the serious illness of one of his children far away in his Delmar home, and he is at the office now, anxiously awaiting a reply to a message of inquiry sent as to the present condition of the child. Brother Ristein fears the worst, and we all share his anxiety. Promptly the answer flashes back, “The child is better and thought to be out of danger.” The words make light a heavy heart, and we are all glad for Brother Ristein’s sake.
Our train occupies a track in the Arcade Station train shed for our convenience, and by ten o’clock there are very few but what have turned in. A few of the “boys” are still out, of course, but it is a hopeless task to try and “keep tab” on them. We cannot do it. These nocturnal outings of theirs will have to be noted down as “unwritten history.” How much of it there will be we cannot tell. There has been considerable already, of which we might mention one night at Fort
Image not available: WINTER IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.WINTER IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA.
Worth, testing the efficacy of police protection while attempting to follow a “blind trail”; four or five nights in El Paso chasing the fleeting phantom of merry luck to the musical whirl of the wheel of fortune. They are all right, these “boys” of ours, and they know a good thing when they see it.
We are all up bright and early this morning, and after breakfast parties are formed to take in the sights. A number of us have decided to take a tally-ho ride, and Brother Wyman has gone to procure the outfit. In a short time he returns with the information that “the wagon will soon be here.” It is not long until a fine roomy coach, drawn by six white horses, reins up in front of the group, and we clamber in. There is just room enough. We count the party and find there are fourteen, including the driver. The team is from the Panorama Stables and driven by “Mac,” the veteran stager and coachman, who knows every crook and turn in all the highways and byways and drives and trails throughout Southern California. “Mac” is a character; we try to draw him out, but he won’t talk about himself, won’t even tell you his name, only that it is “Mac.” He will tell you about everything else, and he is thoroughly posted. He takes us through the principal streets of this most wonderful city, rightly named “The town of the Queen of Angels.”
Los Angeles lies amongst the foothills of the Sierra Madre Mountains, with an average elevation of 300 feet above sea level, only 15 miles from the coast, with an active, bustling business population of about 75,000inhabitants. The beauty and magnificence of this tropical profusion through which we are passing is something we have heard of, but never saw before, and we find we are helpless when we attempt to describe it. In fancy and in dreams we have pictured “The Land of Sunshine and Flowers,” but now, brought face to face with this marvelous reality, the beautiful pictures of dreams and fancy pale into crudeness and insignificance. Through avenues shaded on either side by rows of palms, eucalyptus, and pepper trees, past rose-embowered cottages and lawns filled with tropical plants, surrounded by hedges of roses and calla lilies, we continue on our way out through the suburbs into the rural districts, through the avenues of vast orange groves, the trees loaded with luscious golden fruit, through beautiful Pasadena, and on until “Mac” draws up at the famous ostrich farm, where we alight and go in to look around.
We spend about half an hour looking at the birds and two and a half dollars in the purchase of feathers. Loading up, we start on our way again, bound for “Lucky Baldwin’s” ranch, “the largest individual tract of land,” says “Mac,” “in Southern California. It comprises 50,000 acres, nearly all under a condition of cultivation and improvement.” Here it is our pleasure to behold the largest and most wonderful orange grove in the world. For miles we see nothing but orange trees and oranges; the trees are loaded and the ground is covered with the yellow fruit. We feast upon the beauty and grandeur of this unusual sight, with lots of oranges thrown in. It is needless to state that we ate all we could and loaded up the hack.
Image not available: BROOKSIDE AVENUE, REDLANDS, CALIFORNIA.BROOKSIDE AVENUE, REDLANDS, CALIFORNIA.
A few miles further on we arrive at the Bonita Hotel, belonging to the ranch kept by Mrs. Warner, where the horses are taken from the coach and fed and the party takes lunch. Large lawns surround the buildings filled with many varieties of flowers, and we are given the privilege of plucking all we want, and when we leave each lady carries a large bouquet in her hand and each gentleman a smaller one in his buttonhole.
Starting on our way again, the horses refreshed with rest and food, we speed along lengthy drives and avenues, shaded by large Lombardy poplar and eucalyptus trees, for about two miles, when we pass through a large gateway over which is an arch in the form of an immense horse shoe, and enter the stable grounds where Baldwin’s famous blooded horses are kept. We are kindly received by the stableman, shown through the stalls, where a number of the celebrated equines are seen. Brother Layfield evinces such a surprising knowledge of horseflesh and shows so much interest in the history of the different animals as related by the stableman that he is presented by that courteous gentleman with a mule’s shoe as a souvenir of the visit. Brother Kilgore is also interested in the horses and would like to have a shoe; a search for one is unsuccessful, and so long did Brother Kilgore remain in the stable looking for the much-desired relic that he came near being left.
Leaving the stable grounds, we drive a mile further to the palatial residence and magnificent grounds of the renowned ruler of these domains. Mr. Baldwin is not at home at the present time, but the place is in charge of trusted employes. Leaving the coach, we walk through the spacious grounds surrounding the princely mansion.Paradise can hardly be more beautiful and grand—the largest, the sweetest, the reddest roses that ever delighted the sense of sight or smell, the grandest trees, the most beautiful shrubbery bearing flowers of every kind and color. Bordered with blooming lilies are lakes of water, clear as crystal, on the surface of which graceful swans are swimming and in whose depth gold and silver fish dart and dive. Fine fountains and statuary intersperse the lawn, adding to its richness and beauty. Mounted above a pedestal in a conspicuous spot we notice an old bell. It is possessed of no beauty, and we wonder what it is for. We inquire of an old man working near by, “Uncle, what is the old rusty bell for?” “That old bell,” answered the old gentleman, removing his hat with a low bow as he turns toward the object in question, “is the most valued thing you see. It is a relic that money cannot buy. Mr. Baldwin prizes it very highly, and we people all adore it.” As the old servant utters the last words he makes another low courtesy. We begin to think he is a little daft and are about to move on, when, straightening up and with outstretched arm he points toward the old bell a bony, trembling finger, and continues slowly and with emphasis, “That old bell came from the chimes tower of the San Gabriel Mission. That is why we prize it; that is why we love it.” We thought at first the old fellow bowed to us; we know now that he bowed to the old bell out of respect and reverence, for whatever is connected or associated with those old missions is looked upon as something almost sacred by many of the people here, especially those of the Roman faith.
A whistle from “Mac” informs us we must be going,
Image not available: SAN GABRIEL MISSION, CALIFORNIA.SAN GABRIEL MISSION, CALIFORNIA.
Image not available: GIANT PALMS ON THE ROAD TO SAN GABRIEL.GIANT PALMS ON THE ROAD TO SAN GABRIEL.
and climbing into the ’bus the horses start off on a brisk trot and we soon leave “Lucky Baldwin’s” ranch behind and enter “Sunny Slope” vineyard, owned by L. J. Rose. This immense vineyard contains 1500 acres and is traversed by beautiful avenues which divide this vast acreage of grapevines into great squares.
We are soon across this interesting tract and enter the grounds of the vintage plant of the San Gabriel Wine Company. We were very courteously treated and shown through the large establishment, the capacity of which is 1,500,000 gallons of wine per year. Upon leaving we pass through their vineyard, containing 1000 acres, which is near the vintage plant.
As we approach the old San Gabriel Mission and “Mac” reins up his steeds in front of the low, quaint building, I instinctively glance up at the ancient belfry and find that two of the niches or arches where bells once had swung are vacant. “Lucky Baldwin” has one of the bells; I wonder who has the other. At this moment another tally-ho drives up and stops, and we find it is a coaching party of our own people. We all alight and enter the historic and sacred edifice. Those who are of the faith render their acknowledgment with quiet, humble reverence; we who are not stand silently by in an attitude of mute veneration. San Gabriel stands fourth in the line of the twenty-one missions established in California from July 16th, 1769, to April 25th, 1820, the date of its establishment being September 8th, 1771.
The party we encountered consists of Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell, Mr. and Mrs. Reilly, Mr. and Mrs. Matthews, Mr. Reagan, Mr. McCarty, Mr. Waddington, Mr. Taylor, Mr. Williams, and Mr.Suter. They occupy one of Hoag’s White Livery tally-ho coaches, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Horner in a buggy. Our party consists of Mr. and Mrs. Wyman, Mr. and Mrs. Kilgore, Mr. and Mrs. Layfield, Mr. and Mrs. McKernan, Mr. and Miss Barrett, Mr. Crispen, Mrs. Shaw and myself.
As we bowl along the level drive toward the city, after leaving the old Mission, our conversation turns upon the pleasures of the day and of the interesting and beautiful things we have seen. We are all well pleased with our day’s outing, especially the Colonel, who is in a high good humor, for had he not obtained what no one else could get, a substantial memento of his visit to the famous Baldwin ranch? “I am going to have this shoe decorated with ribbon and hung up in my parlor,” asserts the Colonel, as he searches in the bottom of the coach for his prize. “I guess not,” exclaims Mrs. Shaw, as she gives him a dig in the ribs with her elbow, “that’s my shoe you’ve got hold of.” “But where’s my horse shoe? Has any one got it? Has any one seen my horse shoe?” excitedly inquires the Colonel, as he makes another dive into the bottom of the coach. “I think it flew away,” quietly remarks Mrs. Wyman, as she draws her feet up and out of the way. “Who ever saw a shoe fly,” snaps the Colonel, as he continues rummaging in the bottom of the vehicle. “I have,” answers Manager Wyman, removing his hat, exposing a pate as devoid of hair and as bald as a door knob, from which he brushes an imaginary fly. “I saw a horse fly, but didn’t notice if he had shoes on,” observes Mrs. McKernan, keeping her eye on the Colonel, who is growing desperate in his failure to find
Image not available: AN AVENUE IN PASADENA, CALIFORNIA.AN AVENUE IN PASADENA, CALIFORNIA.
his treasure. But it was gone; it had escaped from the bottom of the coach in some way, and we all sympathize with Brother Layfield in his bereavement, now that we find he has actually lost his valued souvenir.
We enter the city through East Side Park, which is a most beautiful and delightful drive. We bid goodbye to “Mac” and his spanking team and hurry to our dining car, where we arrive just in time for one of McDonald’s dandy dinners, which we heartily enjoy after such a busy day. We find a number of our party had taken trips similar to our own, and over nearly the same route; others had ascended Mt. Lowe, been away above the clouds; some had taken a run down to Santa Monica and sported in the surf of the Pacific; some to Santa Catalina Island, the alleged “Garden of Eden” of the Pacific coast. All express themselves as having had an exceedingly good time and are laying plans for the morrow. There are many places we would like to visit and many things we would like to see, but our time is too limited “to take it all in,” for we are to leave here to-morrow at 2.00 P. M. We have friends in San Diego we had intended to visit and there are fish at Catalina Island we had expected to catch; both friends and fish will have to charge their disappointment or pleasure, as the case may be, to the turbid waters of the Rio Grande.
Dinner being over, the most of our people take a walk up town and enjoy a promenade through the brilliantly-lighted streets, admiring the handsomely-furnished stores, with goods and wares arranged and exposed in so tempting a manner that many trinkets and knicknacks are purchased for souvenirs. Returning tothe train at an early hour and hearing such a favorable account of the trip to Mt. Lowe from some who were there to-day, we conclude to join a party that is going in the morning and “take it in.” One by one and two by two our people keep dropping in like unto the oft-mentioned fowls that “come home to roost,” until only a few of the “boys,” as usual, are left outside the fold, and to them I need again ascribe “unwritten history.” As I leave the smoker to retire to my berth in the “Marco” I see our faithful George H. (Alfalfa) Anderson making up his bed, under the pillow of which he carefully places our “artillery,” and I feel we are as safe as though surrounded by a cordon of Gatling guns.
Arose early this morning and found the weather not very favorable for our contemplated trip to Mt. Lowe, being cloudy and somewhat foggy, but we concluded to go, so after breakfast the party, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Wyman, Mr. and Mrs. Layfield, Mr. and Miss Barrett, Mr. Kilgore, Mr. Sloane, Mr. Haas, Mr. Crispen, Mr. Denniston, two guests—Miss R. Stradling and Mr. A. L. Bailey—George H. Alfalfa Anderson, and myself, under the escort of Brother Ed. Butcher, of Los Angeles Division No. 111, who is a passenger conductor on the Los Angeles Terminal Road, boarded a car at 10.00 A. M. Eastern (7.00 A. M. Pacific) on the Pasadena and Los Angeles Electric Railway, conducted by W. A. Brown, and started on a never-to-be-forgotten trip to Mt. Lowe.
Out through the suburbs of Los Angeles, with its
Image not available: GREAT CABLE INCLINE, MT. LOWE RAILWAY.GREAT CABLE INCLINE, MT. LOWE RAILWAY.
beautiful rose-embowered cottages and palatial residences and lawns of palms and tropical shrubbery, on through miles of country districts, rich with groves of golden fruit, through eden—Pasadena to Altadena, where we change cars for another electric road that carries us for about three miles over hill and dale, through ravines and across frightful-looking chasms, but always tending upward, until at an elevation of 2200 feet Rubio Cañon is reached and we are at the foot of the great cable incline, claimed to be the most wonderful cable road in the world, extending from Rubio Pavilion to Echo Mountain, a distance of 3000 feet. It makes a direct ascent of 1350 feet. Looking up at the wonderful construction it seems to almost pierce the sky; its summit is enshrouded in a veil of fog that hides it from our view.
“I don’t quite like the looks of that,” ventures Brother Kilgore, looking over his glasses with a scrutinizing glance, as his eyes follow the great incline up to where it is lost in the fog. “I guess it’s all right; I don’t think we’ll find it as terrifying as it looks to be; anyhow, the proof of the pudding is in eating it, and I for one am going up,” answers Brother Sloane. “Charlie, if you go I will go,” responds his bosom friend and chum, Brother Haas. “There is no danger I will not share with you, and perhaps we can see some mountain goats.”
“Or capture a deer,” adds Brother Denniston, who is keeping pretty close to Miss Stradling, for that young lady looks as though she needs sympathy and companionship in this trying ordeal.
“Do you think it’s safe, Charlie?” quietly inquiresMrs. Wyman of her husband as we start to ascend to the landing where we board the car. “Yes, perfectly safe,” replies Manager Wyman. “Human skill and ingenuity can make it no safer. They claim they never had an accident since the road has been in operation. The cable by which these cars are drawn has been tested to stand a strain of 100 tons, and the cars when loaded do not weigh five tons, so there is no danger at all.” “If I thought there was the least danger I wouldn’t go up,” utters Brother Layfield, “but I know there isn’t a bit.” Mrs. Layfield makes no comment, but clings nervously to the Colonel’s arm. The rest of the party follow without any apparent trepidation with the exception of “Alfalfa,” who looks a trifle pale.
We are all comfortably seated in the “White Chariot” car, which is constructed without canopy or covering, with seats arranged in amphitheatre style, one above the other, facing the foot of the incline, an excellent arrangement for affording an unobstructed view.
The signal is given, the machinery is set in motion, and quietly and smoothly we start on our trip toward the sky.
“Those mountain peaks you see just beyond Rubio Cañon are called the ‘Rubio Amphitheatre,’ ” explains the guide who accompanied the car. “You will notice that as we ascend those mountains seem to rise one after another and follow us.” We did notice them; we were looking right at them and couldn’t help it. It was an optical illusion that was rather startling. We thought at first that the mountains would overtake us, but they didn’t. “This is ‘Granite Gorge,’ ” continues the guide, as we enter a great cut that rears its granite walls on
Image not available: ECHO MOUNTAIN HOUSE AND CAR ON THE 48 PER CENT. GRADE, MT. LOWE RAILWAY.ECHO MOUNTAIN HOUSE AND CAR ON THE 48 PER CENT. GRADE, MT. LOWE RAILWAY.
either side of us and lose sight of the mountains that are chasing us. “The workmen on this road were eight months in hewing this passage through these rocks, and before a tie or rail was laid they had to clamber to these rugged heights and carry their implements with them, and much of the material used in the construction of the road, such as water, cement, and lumber, had to be carried on the backs of burros and on the shoulders of men. This bridge that we are now crossing is called the MacPherson Trestle, and there is no other bridge like it in the world. It is 200 feet long and 100 feet higher at one end than the other. If it were not for the clouds you could obtain a good scenic view from here.” Clouds! We had not thought of it before, so interested were we in the talk of our guide, but we notice now that the sun is shining, and looking up we see no vestige of a cloud in the bright, blue sky above.
Looking again, beneath and beyond us, such a sight meets our gaze as our eyes had never rested on before. A vast white sea of billowy vapor overhangs the great San Gabriel Valley and hides it from our view. This alone is worth the trip to see—an immense heaving sea of clouds, an ocean of fleecy vapor billows that surge and roll and toss as though seeking for a shore of sand and rock upon which to spend their restless force. Halting at the summit of the great cable incline, we find we have arrived at the Echo Mountain House, where we change cars, taking an electric road called the Alpine Division of the Mt. Lowe Railway, which extends from Echo Mountain to Mt. Lowe Springs, where “Ye Alpine Tavern” is located.
As we board the Alpine Division observation car Iagain cast my eyes over toward the San Gabriel Valley, where a few minutes before we had beheld the battle of the clouds. What a grand transformation! The clouds have been dispersed as though by magic, and lying spread out in the valley 3500 feet beneath us is a panorama of such incomparable and inconceivable beauty and loveliness that we gaze for a moment enraptured, speechless, spellbound, dazed. They must be all looking, for there hasn’t been a word uttered for a minute. I am feasting my eyes on the supreme beauty of the scenery and drinking deeply at the fountain of delight; at the same time I’m trying to count the squares in the city of Pasadena and the orange groves that dot the valley. “It’s all there, but it’s a good ways off,” remarks Charlie Sloane, breaking the spell of silence. “My gracious! isn’t that fine? It beats looking across Jersey through the crown of Billy Penn’s hat,” exclaims George Alfalfa in a guarded tone.
The electric current is turned on, our car starts quietly off, and for four miles we pass over the most wonderfully constructed railway in the world. We do not go very fast—in fact, we would rather not, for taking everything into consideration this is not very good ground for “scorching,” and going at a gentle, easy pace lessens our chances of being rolled a few thousand feet down the side of a mountain. Not that any of us are afraid of being “dumped”; we didn’t come up here to be scared, but out of curiosity to see what it is like, and the more slowly the car moves the better able we are to see and the longer we can look at what we do see.
This entire roadbed, hewn out of the sides of the mountain, forms a solid granite ledge upon which the
Image not available: MT. LOWE RAILWAY, CALIFORNIA.MT. LOWE RAILWAY, CALIFORNIA.
road is built, and it is always a towering wall of rock on one side and a yawning chasm on the other. To this there is but one exception, the “Grand Circular Bridge.” From this structure you can look from both sides down into the depths. If you don’t want to look you can shut your eyes.
Professor Lowe has constructed this railway at a cost of many hundred thousand dollars to enable tourists to penetrate the heart of the Sierra Madre Mountain, that they may form some conception of what an isolated mountain wilderness is like. It is all here and ever-present, in boundless, grand profusion—mountains, wilderness, isolation—an awe-inspiring, infinite trinity of grandeur, that almost makes your head swim and your heart stand still. Our tracks shelve the very summit of the sloping walls of mighty cañons, and you can look down 3000 feet into their wooded depths.
We arrive in due time at Mt. Lowe Springs, the terminus of the road, and are 5000 feet above the level of the sea. From here we can see the summit of Mt. Lowe, two miles away and 1000 feet above us. It is intended to extend the tracks to this point in the near future. A bridle path leads to it, and you can make the trip now on the back of a burro. A pathway leads to “Inspiration Point,” half a mile away, from which it is said magnificent views can be had. Our time is limited; we hasten to the famous spring, drink of its ice-cold water, and then visit the homelike, cozy club house, “Ye Alpine Tavern,” and give it a hurried inspection.
Nestling among giant oaks and pines, it occupies a romantic and picturesque location; in style of architecture it is attractive and unique, being something on theorder of a Swiss chalet. It is two and a half stories in height, with ground dimensions of 40 by 80 feet; contains 20 bed rooms, a large dining room, billiard hall, and kitchen. It is built of granite and Oregon pine, finished in the natural color of the wood. The design of the main hall or dining room is the most striking feature connected with the construction of the building. Artistically located around the room in uniform order are five cheerful open fireplaces, in the largest of which swings a mammoth iron pot on a huge crane. It is 7 feet high and 12 feet wide. Blocks of granite have been placed in its corners for seats, and over the mantel above it is the somewhat flattering but old-time hospitable inscription, “Ye ornament of a house is ye guest who doth frequent it.” On one side of this mantel is a brick oven of ancient design; on the other side is a receptacle of peculiar and unique construction and suspicious appearance, which no doubt contains the liquid nourishment of the establishment.
“I wonder what they keep in this funny-looking cupboard,” whispers Brother Kilgore in my ear, as we were looking around in the dining room.
“Suppose we look and see,” I reply, as I attempt to open the door. “No, you don’t; it’s fastened. I’ll see who’s got the key,” is the rejoinder as he hurriedly walks away. Passing outside, I notice a number of the party are getting aboard the car, and as I join them the motorman shouts “All aboard.” “Are our people all here?” asks Manager Wyman, as he casts his eyes over the crowd. “Brother Denniston isn’t here. I think he went to Inspiration Point,” replies Brother Barrett. “Nor Brother Kilgore,” I add. “He went to look for a
Image not available: CIRCULAR BRIDGE, MT. LOWE RAILWAY, CALIFORNIA.CIRCULAR BRIDGE, MT. LOWE RAILWAY, CALIFORNIA.
man with a key.” “I’m here,” says Brother Kilgore, as he emerges from the door of the “Tavern,” wiping his mouth in a suspicious manner; at the same time Brother Denniston and his “company” are seen coming from toward the “spring” and soon we are “all aboard” and “homeward bound.” At one point on our descent three or four mountain goats are seen on the track ahead of us, but on our approach they quickly disappear from sight in the thicket. It is with difficulty that Brothers Sloane and Haas can be restrained from leaping overboard and giving chase. Thirty minutes stop at Echo Mountain gives us an opportunity of visiting the beautiful hotel at this point, the “Echo Mountain House,” which is located on the summit of Echo Mountain and is said to be one of the finest equipped mountain hotels in the world. From its veranda and balcony hundreds of visitors daily view with rapture and delight the wonderful scenery of the San Gabriel Valley and its surroundings. A small cannon fired off on the lawn has a startling effect, and proves that the mountain is not misnamed. The report echoes from peak to peak and then seems to go bounding and tumbling down the cañons and ravines, growing fainter and fainter until it gradually dies away in the distance.
The great “World’s Fair search light,” purchased by Professor Lowe and established on Echo Mountain, is operated nightly for the pleasure and entertainment of visitors. The power of its light is that of 3,000,000 candles and its rays can be seen for 150 miles on the Pacific Ocean. Its beams falling upon a newspaper 35 miles away will enable a person to easily read it. Our time is up, and boarding the “White Chariot” we commenceour descent of the great cable incline, reaching the bottom in safety. A photographer is on hand and “pressed the button” on the car and contents.
On our trip to and fro to-day we passed in sight of the beautiful home of Professor Lowe, near Pasadena, and returning I had the pleasure and honor of meeting and conversing with him during the twenty minutes we rode together on the Pasadena and Los Angeles Electric Railway. I was introduced to the professor by Brother Edward Butcher, and we took a seat together. He is a large man of fine appearance and carries himself with the graceful mien of a brigadier-general; his eye is bright and kind, his voice gentle and agreeable, and we are the best of friends in a minute. “Professor,” I remarked, “there are but a very few of the people, I warrant, who ascend that marvelous cable incline, who enjoy the pleasure and excitement of that unequaled ride among the wild, magnificent mountain scenery of your Alpine Division on a comfortable trolley car, that ever give a second thought to the men who endured hardships and risked their lives to even survey a road like that. I have thought of this several times to-day, and would like to ask how you ever induced men to traverse those cliffs and peaks and cañon walls, where a mountain goat can hardly secure a footing?” “Well,” answered the professor, “you know there are no hardships so severe they will not be endured, no risks so great they will not be taken, if only men have a leader to follow and are well paid for following him. Long before a measurement was taken or a stake was driven, when the idea that such a road were possible first entered my mind, I spent many days with only an employed attendant my companion,
Image not available: YE ALPINE TAVERN, MT. LOWE, CALIFORNIA.YE ALPINE TAVERN, MT. LOWE, CALIFORNIA.
in making my way from Rubio Cañon to the crest of the highest peak along the route which you traveled with so much pleasure to-day in less than 90 minutes. I headed every surveying party that went out in the interest of the enterprise. I have personally directed all the operations that have required engineering skill and experience; I have expended almost one and a half millions of dollars, and my work isn’t completed yet.” “That is an enormous sum of money to invest in a venture, or rather an experiment, that you don’t know will pay till you try it,” I ventured to assert, while secretly admiring the indomitable courage and spirit of the man. “Yes, it is a great deal of money,” was the reply, and I imagined that a sigh accompanied the words. “As a financial scheme I believe it will be a failure. I have no hope of ever getting out of it what money I have put in it, but to me this is only a secondary matter. I’ve watched a vague visionary dream grow into a bright reality; I’ve had cherished theories, condemned as insane and impracticable, converted into substantial facts; I have solved the greatest engineering and mechanical problems that ever taxed the brain of man; I’ve won the hardest, toughest intellectual battle that ever was fought; I’ve had an all-absorbing ambition gratified, and I feel that I have, in a measure, got the worth of my money.” As the professor ceased speaking there was a bright look in his eye and a happy expression on his countenance as though it were a great pleasure to reflect on the great work he had accomplished. The car was approaching his destination; he arose to go and extended his hand. As I took it he said, “When you come again you can extend your ride to the summit of the mountain, for Ipropose to complete the work in a short time; and you must stay longer, for in your hurried trip to-day there is much you didn’t see, and I would wish that you could see it all; goodbye.” The car stopped and he was gone. As he disappeared from view I said to myself, “There goes a wonderful man.”
Continuing a few blocks further we left the car and visited the Chamber of Commerce and spent half an hour among its interesting relics and curiosities. When we reach our train the most of our people are there, the time for starting being almost up. We bid adieu to the kind friends we have made while here, and who did all they could to make our short stay a pleasant one, and at 5.00 P. M. Eastern (2.00 P. M. Pacific) we pull out of the station at Los Angeles bound for San Francisco and the “Golden Gate,” 482 miles away.
We are still on the Southern Pacific’s famous “Sunset Route,” which we have followed since leaving Sierra Blanca. S. P. engine No. 1826 is pulling us, with Engineer Charlie Hill at the throttle. She is fired by E. Homes, who has a hard task on hand, for there are steep grades to climb and our train is heavy. William Perkins is conducting the train; the brakemen are J. B. Freet and F. W. Bunnell. These three gentlemen are brothers of the “Order” and members of El Capitan Division No. 115, of San Francisco. They are members of the entertainment committee from that division and have been selected to run our train that they may be able to look after our welfare. J. C. Fielding, also a member of El Capitan Division and of the committee, is a guest on the train, along with Brother Twist,