Out of Doors California and Oregon by J. A. Graves
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J. A. Graves >> Out of Doors California and Oregon
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6 Out of Doors
California and Oregon
By J. A. Graves
Profusely Illustrated
1912
Contents
A Motor Trip in San Diego's Back Country
A Hunting Trip in the Long Ago
Professor Lo, Philosopher
A Great Day's Sport on Warner's Ranch
Boyhood Days in Early California
Last Quail Shoot of the Year 1911
An Auto Trip Through the Sierras
To the memory of my sons
Selwyn Emmett Graves and Jackson A. Graves, Jr.
Both of whom were nature lovers, this book is lovingly dedicated.
Illustrations
J. A. Graves Frontispiece
Mount Pitt
Cuyamaca Lake, Near Pine Hills
El Cajon Valley, San Diego County, from Schumann-Heink Point, Grossmont
In San Diego County
San Diego Mountain Scene
Fern Brake, Palomar Mountain
The Margarita Ranch House
San Diego and Coronado Islands from Grossmont
Grade on Palomar Mountain
Pelican Bay, Klamath Lake
On Klamath River
Klamath Lake and Link River
Spring Creek
Wood River, Oregon
The Killican
Williamson River
Scorpion Harbor, Santa Cruz Island
Smugglers' Cove, San Clemente Island
Arch Rock, Santa Cruz Island
Cueva Valdez, Santa Cruz Island
Lily Rock, Idyllwild
The Entrance and Mission Arches, Glenwood Mission Inn, Riverside
Magnolia Avenue and Government Indian School, Riverside
Hemet Valley from Foothills on the South
Ferris Valley Grain Field
Orange Groves Looking Southeast Across Hemet Valley, California
View from Serra Memorial Cross, Huntington Drive, Rubuidoux Mountain,
Riverside
Some Barley
Victoria Avenue, Riverside
A Rocky Stream
Fern Brakes Four Feet in Height at Fine Hills
California White Oak
Another View of Spring Creek
Harvesting in San Joaquin Valley
Nevada Falls from Glacier
Nevada Falls, Close Range
Point Upper Yosemite
Yosemite Falls
Cedar Creek at Fine Hills
Scene Near Fine Hills Lodge
A Motor Trip in San Diego's Back Country.
Come, you men and women automobilists, get off the paved streets of Los
Angeles and betake yourselves to the back country of San Diego county,
where you can enjoy automobile life to the utmost during the summer.
There drink in the pure air of the mountains, perfumed with the breath
of pines and cedars, the wild lilacs, the sweet-pea vines, and a
thousand aromatic shrubs and plants that render every hillside ever
green from base to summit. Lay aside the follies of social conditions,
and get back to nature, pure and unadorned, except with nature's charms
and graces.
To get in touch with these conditions, take your machines as best you
can over any of the miserable roads, or rather apologies for roads,
until you get out into the highway recently constructed from Basset to
Pomona. Run into Pomona to Gary avenue, turn to the right and follow it
to the Chino ranch; follow the winding roads, circling to the Chino
hills, to Rincon, then on, over fairly good roads, to Corona. Pass
through that city, then down the beautiful Temescal Canyon to Elsinore.
Move on through Murrietta to Temecula.
Three Routes.
Beyond Temecula three routes are open to you. By one of them you keep to
the left, over winding roads full of interest and beauty, through a
great oak grove at the eastern base of Mt. Palomar. Still proceeding
through a forest of scattering oaks, you presently reach Warner's ranch
through a gate. Be sure and close all gates opened by you. Only vandals
leave gates open when they should be closed.
Warner's ranch is a vast meadow, mostly level, but sloping from
northeast to southwest, with rolling hills and sunken valleys around its
eastern edge. A chain of mountains, steep and timber laden, almost
encircles the ranch. For a boundary mark on the northeastern side of the
ranch, are steep, rocky and forbidding looking mountains. Beyond them,
the desert. The ranch comprises some 57,000 acres, nearly all valley
land. It is well watered, filled with lakes, springs, meadows and
running streams, all draining to its lowest point, and forming the head
waters of the San Luis Rey River.
You follow the road by which you enter the ranch, to the left, and in a
few miles' travel you bring up at Warner's Hot Springs, a resort famed
for many years for the curative properties of its waters. The springs
are now in charge of Mr. and Mrs. Stanford, and are kept in an admirable
manner, considering all of the difficulties they labor under. The run
from Los Angeles to the springs is about 140 miles, and can be made
easily in a day. Once there, the choice of many interesting trips is
open to you.
Past Temecula.
After leaving Temecula, another road much frequented by the autoists is
the right hand road by the Red Mountain grade to Fallbrook, either to
Del Mar, by way of Oceanside, or into the Escondido Valley by way of
Bonsal, Vista and San Marcos. The third route, the center one between
those I have described, leads to Pala. With a party of five in a
six-cylinder Franklin car, I went over the latter route on April 20th,
1911. Every inch of the road was full of interest. We passed through
Pala, with its ancient mission of that name, and its horde of Indian
inhabitants. The children of the Indian school were having a recess, and
they carried on just about in the same manner that so many "pale-faced"
children would. Leaving Pala, we followed the main road along the left
bank of the San Luis Rey River--where the San Diego Highway Commission
is now doing work, which will, when finished, bring one to Warner's
ranch by an easy grade--until we had gotten a few miles into the Pauma
rancho. We crossed the Pauma Creek, and some distance beyond it we left
the river to our right, turned sharply to the left, and ran up to the
base of Smith's, or Palomar Mountain. Then came the grade up the
mountain.
If you are not stout-hearted, and haven't a powerful machine, avoid this
beautiful drive. If you are not driving an air-cooled car, carry extra
water with you. You will need it before you reach the top. The road is a
narrow zigzag, making an ascent of 4000 feet in a distance of from ten
to twelve miles of switch-backing around the face of a steep rock-ribbed
mountain. To add to its difficulties, the turns are so short that a long
car is compelled to back up to negotiate them. About an hour and a
quarter is required to make the trip up the mountain. We did all of it
on low gear. When the top is finally reached, the view of the
surrounding country is simply beyond description.
Belated Spring.
The mountain oaks of great size and broad of bough, were not yet fully
in leaf. Pines and cedars, and to my astonishment, many large sycamores,
were mingled with the oaks. A gladsome crop of luscious grasses covered
the earth. Shrubs and plants were bursting into bloom. As we moved on we
saw several wild pigeons in graceful flight among the trees. After
traveling the backbone of the mountain for some distance we came to a
dimly marked trail, leading to the left. The "Major Domo" of our party
said that this road led to Doane's Valley, and that we must go down it.
It was a straight up and down road, with exceedingly abrupt pitches, in
places damp and slippery, and covered with fallen leaves. At the bottom
of the descent, which it would have been impossible to retrace, we came
to a small stream. Directly in the only place where we could have
crossed it a log stuck up, which rendered passage impossible. After a
deal of prodding and hauling, we dislodged it and safely made the ford.
Doane's Valley is one of those beauty spots which abound in the
mountains of California. Its floor is a beautiful meadow, in which are
innumerable springs. Surrounding this meadow is heavy timber, oaks,
pines and giant cedars. Pauma Creek flows out of this meadow through a
narrow gorge, which nature evidently intended should some day be closed
with a dam to make of the valley a reservoir to conserve the winter
waters. We followed a partially destroyed road through the meadow to its
upper end. Then as high and dry land was within sight we attempted to
cross a small, damp, but uncertain looking waterway.
Wheels Stuck.
The front wheels passed safely, but when the rear wheels struck it they
went into the mud until springs and axles rested on the ground. Two full
hours we labored before we left that mud hole. We gathered up timbers
and old bridge material, then jacked up one wheel a little way, and got
something under it to hold it there. The other side was treated the same
way. By repeating the operation many times we got the wheels high enough
to run some timbers crosswise beneath them. We put other timbers in
front and pulled out.
We soon reached Bailey's Hotel, a summer resort of considerable
popularity. We continued up the grade until we came onto the main road
left by us when we descended into Doane's Valley. We got up many more
pigeons, graceful birds, which the Legislature of our State should
protect before they are exterminated. We moved on through heavily
timber-covered hills, up and down grade, and finally came out on the
south side of the mountain overlooking the canyon, some 5000 feet deep,
at the bottom of which ran the San Luis Rey River. What would have been
a most beautiful scene was marred by a fog which had drifted up the
canyon. But the cloud effect was marvelous. We were above the clouds. A
more perfect sky no human being ever saw. The clouds, or fog banks, were
so heavy that it looked as if we could have walked off into them. I
never saw similar cloud effects anywhere else except from Mt. Lowe, near
Los Angeles, and Mt. Tamalpais, in Marin County.
Warner's Ranch.
We now began our descent to Warner's Ranch. It was gradual enough for
some distance, and the road and trees were as charming as any human
being could desire. Finally we came out onto a point overlooking the
ranch. The view was simply entrancing. Imagine a vast amphitheater of
57,000 acres, surrounded by hills, dotted here and there with lakes,
with streams of water like threads of burnished silver glittering in the
evening light, softened by the clouds hanging over the San Luis Rey
River. There were no clouds on the ranch; they stopped abruptly at the
southwest corner. This vast meadow was an emerald green, studded with
brilliant colored flowers. Vast herds of cattle were peacefully
completing their evening meal. The road down to the ranch follows a
ridge, which is so steep that no machine has ever been able to ascend
it. I held my breath and trusted to the good old car that has done so
much for my comfort, safety and amusement. We were all glad when the
bottom was reached. We forded the river and whirled away to Warner's Hot
Springs, over good meadow roads, arriving there before 7 o'clock p. m.
Some day these springs are going to be appreciated. Now only hardy
travelers, as a rule, go there. Their medicinal qualities will in time
be realized, and the people of Southern California will find that they
have a Carlsbad within a short distance of Los Angeles, in San Diego
County. We slept the sleep of the tired, weary tourist that night.
Hot Baths.
The following day we passed in bathing in the hot mineral waters,
sightseeing and driving around the valley.
Saturday morning at 7:30 o'clock we bade adieu to Mr. and Mrs. Stanford
and left the ranch by way of the Rancho Santa Isabel. The rain god must
have been particularly partial to this beautiful ranch this season.
Nowhere on our trip did we see such a splendid growth of grass and
flowers, such happy looking livestock, such an air of plenty and
prosperity as we did here. Leaving the ranch at the Santa Isabel store,
we took the Julian road, which place we reached after a few hours'
riding over winding roads good to travel on, and through scenery which
was a constant source of enjoyment. Julian is one of the early
settlements of San Diego County. Mining has been carried on there with
varying successes and disappointments these many years. Now apple
raising is its great industry. The hillsides are given over to apple
culture.
The trees are now laden with blossoms. As we topped a hill or crossed a
divide before beginning an ascent or descent, the view backward of the
apple orchards, peeping up over slight elevations in the clearings, was
extremely beautiful. Leaving Julian, we whirled along over splendid
roads through a rolling country, given over to fruit farming, stock
raising and pasturage. We next reached Cuyamaca and visited the dam of
that name, which impounds the winter rains for the San Diego Flume
Company. The country around the lake showed a deficiency of rainfall.
The lake was far from full. We took our lunch at the clubhouse near the
dam. After resting in the shade of the friendly oaks we then pursued our
journey to Descanso. We passed through Alpine and finally entered the El
Cajon Valley, famed far and wide for its muscatel grapes, which seem
especially adapted to its dark red soil. The vines were in early leaf,
and not as pleasing to the eye as they will be when in full bloom. Then
came Bostonia, a comparatively new settlement, Rosamond, La Mesa, and
finally we whirled off on a splendid road, through an unsettled country
overgrown with sage and shrubs, to Del Mar.
The sky was overcast all the afternoon. A stiff ocean breeze blew
inland, cool and refreshing. The entire day had been spent amid scenes
of rare beauty. The wild flowers are not yet out in profusion, but
enough were there to give the traveler an idea of what can be expected in
floral offerings later in the season. It was early Spring wherever the
elevation was 3500 feet or better. The oaks were not yet in leaf, the
sycamores just out in their new spring dresses, the wild pea blossoms
just beginning to open and cast their fragrance to the breezes.
Far Below.
Yellow buttercups adorned the warmer spots in each sunny valley. Way
below us in the open country great fields of poppies greeted the
gladdened eye. The freshness of spring was in the air. Each breath we
inhaled was full of new life. The odor of the pines mingled its
fragrance with that of the apple blossoms.
Del Mar is the Del Monte of Southern California. We arrived at Stratford
Inn, at that place, which is as well furnished and as well kept as any
hotel on the Coast. A small garden, an adjunct of the hotel, shows what
the soil and climate of Del Mar is capable of producing. Tomato vines
are never frosted. The vegetables from the garden have a fresher,
crisper taste than those grown in a drier atmosphere. How good and
comfortable the bed felt to us that night! Sleep came, leaving the body
inert and lifeless in one position for hours at a time. The open air,
the sunshine, the long ride, the ever changing scenery, brought one
joyous slumber, such as a healthy, happy, tired child enjoys.
The next morning, after an ample, well-cooked and well-served breakfast,
we took the road on the last leg of our journey. Over miles and miles of
new-made roads we sped. Soon the long detour up the San Luis Rey Valley
will be a thing of the past. The new county highway will pursue a much
more direct course. We passed through miles of land being prepared for
bean culture. Miles of hay and grain, miles of pasturage, in which sleek
cattle grazed peacefully, or, having fed their fill, lay upon the rich
grasses and enjoyed life. Near the coast the growth of grain and grass
far surpasses that of the interior.
Santa Marguerita Rancho, with its boundless expanse of grass-covered
pasturage lands, its thousands of head of cattle and horses, its
thousands of acres of bean lands, ready for seed, is worth going miles
to see.
At noon we reached San Juan Capistrano. We drove into the grounds of the
hospitable Judge Egan. At a table, beneath the grateful shade of giant
trees, amid the perfume of flowers, the sweet songs of happy birds, we
ate our lunch. After a short rest we took up the run again. We passed El
Toro and finally came onto the great San Joaquin ranch, every acre of
which is now highly cultivated.
Then came the Santa Ana region, thickly settled, rich in soil and
products. We passed through beautiful and enterprising Santa Ana,
through miles upon miles of walnut, orange and other fruit groves,
through a solid settlement extending far on each side of the road, to
Anaheim. And still on through more walnut and orange groves, more
wealth-producing crops.
Through the orange and lemon and walnut groves of Fullerton, extending
to and forming a large part of Whittier, I could not help exclaiming to
myself, "What an empire this is! Where is the country that yields the
annual returns per acre that this land does?" At Whittier we got into
one of the newly constructed county highways, and at 3:30 p. m. we were
home again, after four days in the open, four days of pure and
unadulterated happiness.
A Hunting Trip in the Long Ago
One of the disadvantages of old age, even advancing years, is the
pleasure we lose in anticipating future events. Enthusiastic youth
derives more pleasure in planning a journey, an outing or a social
gathering than can possibly be realized from any human experience. With
what pleasure the young set out, getting ready for a hunting trip, or an
excursion to some remote locality never visited by them!
From the first day I arrived in Los Angeles, I had heard of the Fort
Tejon and the Rancho La Liebre country as a hunting paradise, extolled
by all people I met, who were given to spending an occasional week or
two in the mountains in search of game. In consequence of what I had
heard of this region, I made up my mind to go there the first time I got
an opportunity.
Among the first acquaintances I made here was a dear old man named A. C.
Chauvin, formerly of St. Louis, Mo., and of French descent. He had spent
many years in the Northwest, hunting and trapping. He was an excellent
shot with both rifle and shotgun. Notwithstanding the fact that he was
slightly afflicted with a nervous disorder akin to palsy, which kept his
left arm and hand, when not in use, constantly shaking, the moment he
drew up his gun, his nerves were steady, and his aim perfect. He
despised the modern breech-loading rifle, and insisted on shooting an
old-fashioned, muzzle-loading, single-barrel rifle, made by a fellow
townsman, Henry Slaughterbach. It was an exceedingly accurate and
powerful shooting gun. Chauvin was a thorough hunter, well versed in
woodcraft, up in camp equipage and the requirements of men on a two or
three weeks' hunting trip.
Off in the Dust.
During the summer of 1876 I had been hard at work. The weather had been
hot and trying. In the latter part of September, Mr. Chauvin proposed
that I go with him on a deer hunt to the Liebre Ranch. I was practicing
law, and after consulting my partners, I eagerly consented to accompany
him. He made all the preparations. On the 30th of September he started a
two-horse wagon, loaded with most of our outfit, on ahead, in charge of
a roustabout. On October 2nd, we followed in a light one-horse wagon,
taking with us our blankets, a few provisions and a shotgun. We had a
hard time pulling over the grade beyond San Fernando, but finally made
it. We went on past Newhall, and camped the first night on the bank of
the Santa Clara River.
Without the slightest trouble we killed, within a very few minutes,
enough quail for supper and breakfast. After we had finished our evening
meal, quite a shower came up very suddenly. Just enough rain fell to
make things sticky and disagreeable. The clouds vanished and left as
beautiful a starlit sky as any human being ever enjoyed. Our wagon had a
piece of canvas over it, which shed the rain, and left the ground
beneath the wagon dry. Upon this spot we spread our blankets and went to
sleep. Next morning the sun got up, hot, red and ugly looking. We
breakfasted, hitched up and started up San Francisquito Canyon. Chauvin
remarked we were in for a hot day, and he proved a good prophet. There
wasn't a breath of wind stirring as the day progressed. The heat fairly
sizzled. A goodly part of the road was well shaded. We were loath to
leave the shady spots when we came to the open places. To lighten our
load we walked most of the way. We stopped for lunch, fed and rested our
weary animal, and just at dark after a weary afternoon's work we reached
Elizabeth Lake, where we overtook the other wagon. We had been two full
days on the road. I have made the same trip in an automobile two summers
in succession, in less than four hours.
In Antelope Country.
On leaving Elizabeth Lake next morning we transferred everything of any
weight from our wagon to the larger one, which made the going much
easier for our animal. We descended the hill beyond the lake, went up
the valley a few miles, and then cut straight across to a point near
where Fairmont is now situated. Chauvin said he wanted to get an
antelope before going after the deer. We crossed the valley into some
low, rolling hills and camped on a small stream called Rock Creek.
Chauvin said this was a great place for antelope. The horses were
picketed out on a grassy cienega, which offered them pretty good feed.
We got our supper, made camp and went to bed.
During the night a wind began to blow from the northwest, and in a few
hours it had become a hurricane. Small stones were carried by it like
grains of sand. They would pelt us on the head as we lay in our
blankets. We could hear the stones clicking against the spokes of the
wagon wheels. Great clouds, of dust would obscure the sky. By morning
the velocity of the wind was terrific. Our horses, driven frantic, had
broken loose and disappeared. We could not make a fire, nor if we had
had one could we have cooked anything, for the dirt that filled the air.
For breakfast we ate such things as we had prepared. The roustabout
started off trailing the horses. Chauvin and I sat around under a bank,
blue and disconsolate.
About 11 o'clock we saw a great band of antelope going to water. They
were coming up against the wind, straight to us. When fully half a mile
away they scented us and started off in a circle to strike the creek
above us. We put off after them, following up the creek bed. They beat
us to it, watered and started back to their feeding ground, passing us
in easy range. We shot at them, but without effect. The wind blew so
hard that accurate shooting was an impossibility. We went back to camp.
Not far from it we found quite a hole under the bank, which the winter
waters had burrowed out. It afforded shelter enough from the wind, which
was still blowing, to allow us to build a fire of dry sage brush. We
then prepared a good, warm meal, which we at with great relish. By
1 o'clock in the afternoon the wind began to abate, and it died away
almost as suddenly as it came up. It left the atmosphere dry and full of
dust.
Great Sight.
We heard nothing from the man who had gone after the horses. About 3
o'clock Chauvin said he was going to get an antelope or know why. He
argued that they would be coming to water soon. He told me to remain
near the camp. He went up the stream, intending to get above the point
at which the animals usually watered. He had been gone about an hour,
when I saw the dust rise toward the east--such a dust as a drove of
sheep in motion makes. Pretty soon the advance guard of the largest band
of antelope I ever saw, or ever hope to see again, appeared in sight. As
they scented our camp, what a sight they made! There they stood, out of
range, looking to the point where their keen noses notified them that
danger lurked. Then they would wheel and run, stop and look again. The
white spots on their rumps shone in the sunlight like burnished silver.
They would stop, look awhile and again wheel and run. Suspicious and
anxious they stood, heads up and nostrils dilated, sides heaving. They
made a beautiful picture of excited and alarmed curiosity. Several times
they advanced, and then fell back. Finally they whirled away and headed
up stream. In a few minutes I heard the report of Chauvin's rifle,
followed a little later by another shot. Then the whole band appeared in
wild disorder, running as only frightened antelopes can run, in the
direction from which they came. Shortly afterwards I saw Chauvin on a
little knoll. I waved my arms. He saw me, took off his hat and beckoned
for me to join him. Off I put, as fast as my legs could carry me. When I
got to him, I found he had killed two antelope bucks. They lay within
400 yards of each other. He had already cut their throats. Maybe you
think we were not happy! We drew the animals. Chauvin was an old man,
compactly built, but very strong. He helped me shoulder the smaller of
the bucks, and then he, with the greatest ease, picked up the other one,
and we trudged to camp. We hung our game up on a couple of stunted
stumps and skinned them. Then we prepared supper. We cooked potatoes and
rice, made coffee, and cornbread, and fried the antelope livers with
bacon. Just as our meal was ready, our roustabout came into camp, riding
one of the horses barebacked, with only a halter and leading the other
two. He had had his hat blown away and was bareheaded. He was nearly
frozen, having started off in the morning without his coat.
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