Byways Around San Francisco Bay by William E. Hutchinson
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William E. Hutchinson >> Byways Around San Francisco Bay
[Illustration: ON THE ROAD TO STRAWBERRY CANON]
BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY
BY W. E. HUTCHINSON
1915
ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR
DEDICATED TO
MY WIFE
THE DEAREST YET SEVEREST
OF CRITICS
CONTENTS
Sunset in the Golden Gate (Poem)
Brook and Waterfall
Mountain and Valley
Canon and Hillside
Wild-cat Canon
Autumn Days (Poem)
Around the Camp Fire
Trout Fishing in the Berkeley Hills
On the Beach
Muir Woods
San Francisco Bay (Poem)
In Chinatown
In a Glass-bottom Boat
Fog on the Bay
Meiggs' Wharf
The Stake and Rider Fence (Poem)
Moonlight
Mount Tamalpais
Bear Creek
The Song of the Reel (Poem)
The Old Road
ILLUSTRATIONS
On the Road to Strawberry Canon
The Laughter of the Brook
Brook and Waterfall
The Turn of the Trail
Mountain and Valley
Sunshine and Shadow
Canon and Hillside
The Bottom of the Canon
Wild-cat Canon
The Trout's Paradise
Fishing for Brook Trout
They have Stood the Storms of Centuries
Sea Gull Rock
Comrades
Among the Redwoods
A Chinese Shoemaker
In Chinatown
The Breaking Waves
The Glass-bottom Boat
Fog on the Bay
Italian Fishing Boats
Drying the Nets
The Witchery of Moonlight
Mount Tamalpais
An Uninterrupted View
Where the Shadows are Dark
On Bear Creek
The Old Road
It Climbs the Hill for a Broader View
Finis
[Illustration]
Sunset in the Golden Gate
When day is done there falls a solemn hush:
The birds are silent in their humble nest.
Then comes the Master Artist with his brush,
And paints with brilliant touch the golden west.
The blended colors sweep across the sky,
And add a halo at the close of day.
Their roseate hues far-reaching banners fly,
And gild the restless waters of the bay.
Mount Tamalpais stands in purple 'tire
Against the background, Phoenixlike, ornate:
Apollo drives his chariot of fire
Between the portals of the Golden Gate.
No other hand than His who rules on high,
Could wield the brush and spread such bright array
Upon the outstretched canvas of the sky,
Then draw the curtain of departing day.
[Illustration]
Brook and Waterfall
California, the land of sunshine and roses, with its genial climate,
its skies as blue as the far-famed skies of Venice, and its pure
life-giving air, invites the lover of nature to take long tramps over
hill and dale, mountain and valley, and to search out new trails in
the rugged mountains.
It is a common sight to see parties of men and women meet at the ferry
building, dressed in khaki suits, with knapsacks strapped on their
backs, waiting to take the boat across the bay to some of the numerous
places of interest. There are plenty to choose from, but most of them
go to the same places over and over, instead of searching out
unfrequented nooks that give one a feeling of proprietorship when
discovered. It is an old saying, and a trite one, that "Familiarity
breeds contempt." It is certainly true, however, that we often pass
over the familiar and commonplace to go into raptures over some lofty
mountain peak, ignoring the gems that lie hidden away at its very
base.
There is a quiet beauty in the broad sweep of the valley, a stately
majesty in the towering mountains, a restful grandeur in the rounded
domes of the tree-clad hills, and an element of strength in the broad
sweep of the ocean. One never tires of watching the constant change of
light and shade, for they never appear twice alike. But we are in
search of unfrequented nooks, the byways that others pass unnoticed,
so we leave the prominent to seek out the obscure.
To enjoy the out-of-doors at its best one needs a congenial companion;
one who does not tire on the trail nor find fault with the little
annoying things that are bound to occur on a long journey, but who, in
the silent contemplation of God's handiwork, best expresses his
appreciation of its wonderful beauty in silence; for there are times
when silent enjoyment of a landscape produces a subtle interchange of
thought that speaks louder than words.
Such a one is Hal, more like a brother than a son, and in winding over
tortuous trails and climbing the rugged sides of mountains we have
become good comrades; bound together by the invisible tie of "Nature
Lovers" and the "Call of the Wild," as well as the greater bond of
kinship.
One could not begin to tell of the pleasure derived from these rambles
over valley and mountain, not to speak of the health-giving exercise
in the open air. They are far better than doctors' prescriptions, for
they drive the cobwebs from the brain, bring refreshing slumber, a new
light to the eye, elasticity to the step, and keep one young in
spirit, if not in years.
[Illustration: THE LAUGHTER OF THE BROOK]
It was a bright June morning when Hal and I took the ferryboat for
Sausalito, then by train to Mill Valley. It was just cool enough to
make walking a pleasure, and after the clamor of the city the somber
shadows of the forest, with its solitude, seemed like a benediction.
On every side the giant redwoods tower hundreds of feet in air,
straight and imposing, while the ground, on which the pine needles and
crumbling bark have formed a brown mold, is as soft and springy to the
tread as a velvet carpet.
The resinous, aromatic odor of the pines, combined with the fresh
woodsy fragrance, is like a tonic. Just ahead of us we see a growth of
manzanitas, with their smooth purple-brown bark and pinkish white
flowers in crowded clusters, standing out vividly against the
background of oaks and firs, and we sink knee-deep amid the ferns and
blue and yellow lupine. It seems almost sacrilegious to trample these
exquisite violet-hooded flowers beneath our feet.
Close to the trail a little mountain brook sings merrily over its
pebbly bed, dodging in and out among the rocks, or chuckling in glee
as it dashes in mimic fury over some unseen obstacle, as if it were
playing hide and seek with the shadows along the bank. And we stop to
rest and listen with pleasure to the music of its woodland melody. A
song sparrow joins in the chorus with his quaint sweet lullaby, like
the tinkling of Venetian glass, his notes as clear and delicate as a
silver bell. He evidently believes that singing lightens his labors,
for he is industriously gathering material for the new home he is
building close at hand aided by his demure mate, who, in reality, does
most of the work.
[Illustration: BROOK AND WATERFALL]
The trail grows steeper and harder to climb as we ascend. We hear the
sound of falling water ahead of us, and around a bend in the path, and
through an opening in the trees, we come upon a beautiful waterfall
pouring over the rocks like a bridal veil.
We drop our cameras and scramble down the rocks, drinking cup in hand,
and slake our thirst at this crystal fountain. Was ever a more
delightful draught for thirsty mortals than from this little pool
hidden away here in this mountain fastness? It is a place in which
druids and wood-nymphs might revel, surrounded on all sides by stately
trees and moss-grown rocks, fringed with ferns of all kinds, from the
delicate maidenhair to the wide-spreading shield variety, bordered
with blue and gold lupine (California's colors), and close to the
falls, a bush thickly covered with white flowering dogwood blossoms,
standing out like a rare painting against the green-and-brown
background--a spot to thrill the soul of an artist. Yet how many had
ever found this sylvan retreat, hidden away, as it is, from the main
highway?
[Illustration]
Mountain and Valley
It is hard for us to leave the falls with all their surrounding
beauty, and with reluctance we take one last look at this delightful
glen planted in the heart of the wilderness, and strike out on the
upward trail.
At a turn in the path, where it seems as if we were about to walk off
into space, we get a glimpse through the trees of Mount Tamalpais.
Towering above us with its seam-scarred sides, rent and torn by the
storms of centuries, it rears its jagged dome amid the clouds. We can
just make out a train of diminutive cars winding a tortuous course in
and out around the curves, the toy engine fighting every inch of the
steep incline, and panting like an athlete with Herculean efforts to
reach the summit. Across the intervening space a hawk wheels and turns
in ever-widening circles. We watch him through the glass, rising
higher and higher with each successive sweep, until he fades into a
mere speck in the distant blue.
Up we climb, until another view discloses the valley below us like a
panorama. We creep out to the very edge, and for miles in either
direction it stretches away, as if some giant hand had cleaved for
himself a pathway between the mountains. We stand spellbound,
entranced by the wonderful beauty of the scene, and drink long
draughts of the fresh mountain air.
The dazzling splendor of the noonday sun brings out vividly the
variegated colors of the foliage, and banks of white fleecy clouds
floating overhead trail their shadows over the valley and up the
mountainside like ghostly outriders. The pointed tops of the fir
trees, miles below us, look like stunted shrubbery; the buildings in
Mill Valley seem like dolls' houses nestling among the trees; while
far in the distance the blue waters of the bay glisten in the
sunshine, Alcatraz Island rises out of its watery bed, and San
Francisco stands silhouetted against the distant hills.
We are lost in wonder at the grand spectacle spread out before us; it
is a very fairyland of enchantment, as if brought into being by the
genii of Aladdin. For nearly an hour we watch the lights and shadows
flicker over the valley, the high lights in sharp contrast to the deep
dark purples of the canon.
On the far side of the valley the sloping hills are covered with that
most exquisite flower, the California poppy, its countless millions of
golden blossoms fairly covering the earth. It is a sun worshiper, for
not until the warm sun kisses its golden head does it wake from its
slumbers and throw open its tightly rolled petals. No wonder the
Spanish mariners sailing along the coast and seeing these golden
flowers covering the hills like a yellow carpet called this "The Land
of Fire." This beautiful flower is one of California's natural
wonders--"Copa-de-oro"--cup of gold. It is as famed in the East as in
the West, and thousands come to California to see it in its prodigal
beauty. Steps should quickly be taken to conserve this wild splendor,
and restrictions should be put upon the vandals, who, not content with
picking what they can use to beautify the home, tear them up by the
roots just to see how large an armful they can gather, scattering
their golden petals to the four winds of heaven when they begin to
droop.
[Illustration: The Turn of the Trail]
An old dead pine, whitened by many storms, its gnarled and twisted
branches pathetic in their shorn splendor, is brought into prominence
by the background of vivid green into which it seems to shrink, as if
to hide its useless naked skeleton.
But the lengthening shadows in the valley warn us to begin our
descent, and as we have no desire to sleep out on the trail without
blankets or other camp comforts, we begin our return trip by another
route. Light wisps of fog begin to gather around the top of Mount
Tamalpais, and we hasten our steps, for to be caught in a fog at this
altitude may mean a forced camp, with all its attending
discomforts.
[Illustration: MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY]
We pause for a moment on the margin of a little lake nestling amid the
hills, its blue waters, unruffled by the wind in its sheltered nook,
reflecting back as in a mirror the trees that surround it on all
sides. But we may not linger to drink in the beauty of this quiet
spot, where the red deer once slaked their thirst at its quiet margin,
standing kneedeep in the rushes and lilypads.
Ahead of us a blue jay, that tattler of the woods, flashes his blue
coat in and out among the trees; always saucy, impertinent, and
suspicious, bubbling over with something important to tell, and afraid
he will not be the first to tell it. When he discovers us watching, he
sets up his clamorous cry of "Thief! Thief!" and hurries away to
spread the alarm. A mighty borrower of trouble, this gayly dressed
harlequin of the woods, and yet the forest would not seem complete
without his gay blue vestments.
Suddenly we find ourselves in a cul-de-sac; the trail coming to an
abrupt end. We retrace our steps, and after much searching, find a
narrow trail almost hidden by vines and underbrush. Venturing in, we
follow its tortuous and uneven course along the edge of the canon,
and, as the evening shadows gather, and the stars come out one by one,
tired and dust-covered, we reach the valley, and enjoy the moonlight
ride across the bay to San Francisco.
[Illustration]
Canon and Hillside
Did you ever see the Berkeley hills in the early morning, just before
the sun comes stealing over their rounded domes, or in the evening,
just before it sinks beneath the waters of the bay, and casts its
waning light over their rugged sides?
There never was a more pleasing sight than their uneven profile
sharply drawn against the grayish purple. Watch them as they gradually
assume shape out of the decreasing shadows. The blotches of green and
brown take form and grow into canons and gullies, rocks and towers,
domes and minarets. What a place to build a mosque, and say one's
prayers to the rising sun!
Near the Greek Theater, which pushes its vast amphitheater into the
heart of the hills, winds a canon, not large and imposing, but very
beautiful. It is called by some, after the policy of the University of
California, through whose domain it runs, "Co-ed Canon"; by others,
from the abundance of charming blossoms and luscious fruit found upon
its rugged sides, "Strawberry Canon." But "What's in a name?" By any
other it would be as pleasing.
Trees, gnarled and twisted, reach out their arms across the little
brook that sings merrily at the bottom. Far into the hills it pushes
its winding way, and one must needs scramble over many a fallen tree
and mossy rock in following its beautiful path.
One cannot see very far ahead, but at each succeeding turn in the
trail new wonders open before us. Here it is so narrow we are
compelled to walk in single file, while just beyond it broadens out
into a grassy slope, and through an open vista on the right we get a
glimpse of Old Grizzly looming up in all its grandeur. To the left,
far above us on the hillside, we can see a large cement "C" some
thirty feet in length, placed there by the students of the university
to commemorate hotly contested games of football between the two
colleges. With what jealous care is it watched over on the eve of a
battle to keep the contesting team from painting it with their college
colors!
In this canon we find that pest of nature-lovers who are susceptible
to it, the poison oak. For all its sinister effects, it is a charming
shrub so far as appearance goes, with its bright, glossy serrated
leaves; but do not invite a too familiar acquaintance, for it is a
shrub to be admired at a distance.
[Illustration: SUNSHINE AND SHADOW]
At a path that seems quite accessible we climb out of the canon, and
strike out across the hills. We stop for a moment's rest at a fence,
and while we are filling our lungs with the crisp morning air we see
where a spider has industriously spun his web during the night, from a
stalk of ragweed to the fence corner. The dew has settled upon it and
each silken thread stands out perfectly, shining in the morning
sunshine like some old jewelry made of filagree silver. You little
realize, you tiny spinner of silken fabrics, how easily your gauzy
structure may be broken, and all your work come to naught; for on the
fence a catbird, scolding incessantly, has one eye open for a stray
titbit in the shape of a little weaver of webs, and you may help to
make him an early breakfast.
The meadow larks are sending out their cheery "Spring o' the year"
from fence rail and covert, a song most sweet and inspiring. A flock
of blackbirds goes sailing past, and high overhead a killdee's
plaintive cry echoes over the valley. From here we get a beautiful
view of the bay and the Golden Gate, and in the far distance the dome
of Mount Tamalpais rises above the clouds.
The ferryboats from Oakland, Berkeley, Alameda, and Sausalito are
plying their ceaseless traffic from mole to mole. White-sailed
ships from foreign countries, outward bound with the tide, conveyed
by little bustling tugs, look like monster white-winged gulls; and
somber-hued gunboats, their portholes bristling with deadly engines of
war, strain at their cables. It is an inspiring sight, and, turning
away with reluctance, we circle the hill to Cragmont Heights, stopping
to rest on the rocky summit that overlooks the valley.
[Illustration: CANON AND HILLSIDE]
To our right in North Brae rises a massive pile of granite, known as
"Indian Rock." It marks the resting place of a number of Indian
warriors who once roamed the surrounding hills, and is a fitting
monument to this once noble race.
This is the time of year when the birds set up housekeeping; and such
debonair wooers the male birds are! Dressed in their gay attire, they
display it to the best advantage before the fair sex. Is there
anything so interesting or so amusing as bird courtship? The
rollicking song of the male, an exhibition of his vocal powers worthy
of a virtuoso, is accompanied by the most comical gymnastics--bowing,
scraping, and side-stepping like a dancing-master; all of which, I am
sure, is highly appreciated by the demure little lady. I have seen
birds courting in the stately figures of the minuet, crossing over and
back, bowing and curtsying, in a dignified manner. Listen to the
meadow lark as he pours out his heart in a love song to his mate. As
near as I can understand him he is saying, "Spring is here, my dear,
my dear," and in a lower tone, "Let's build a nest." When such an
ardent wooer lays siege to my lady, using such exquisite music to
further his suit, she must have a heart of stone that would not
quickly capitulate to his amour.
The bobolink, that little minstrel of the marshes, teeters up and down
on a swaying cattail, and flirts most scandalously, as he calls to his
lady love: "What a pink, what a pink, little minx, little minx! You're
a dear, dear, dear."
But we cannot stay to spy upon such love scenes, and we strike out on
the trail for home, after listening with pleasure, as well as profit,
to these feathered musicians.
[Illustration]
Wild-cat Canon
It was on February 22, Washington's Birthday, that Hal and I started
in the early morning from Berkeley, for a trip to Wild-cat Canon. The
birds are singing their _Te Deum_ to the morning sun. The California
partridges run along the path ahead of us, their waving crests bobbing
up and down as they scurry out of sight under the bushes, seldom
taking wing, but depending on their sturdy little legs to take them
out of harm's way. A cotton-tail, disturbed in his hiding, darts away,
bounding from side to side like a rubber ball, as if expecting a shot
to overtake him before he can get safely to cover He need not fear, as
we have no more deadly weapon than a camera, though we should
certainly train that upon him if he but gave us a chance. High
overhead we hear the clarion honk, honk of wild geese, cleaving the
air in drag-shaped column, while the dew on the grass dances and
sparkles in the sunshine like glittering diamonds.
After a hard climb we reach the top of the hill, and look down at the
town just awakening into life, and out across the waters of the bay
partly hidden by the blanket of fog rolling in from the ocean.
Did you ever stand on the top of a high hill in the early morning,
when the eastern sky is beginning to put on its morning robe of
variegated colors, with all the blended shades of an artist's palette,
and watch the town, nestling in the valley at your feet, wake up after
its night of slumber? Here a chimney sends its spiral of blue smoke
straight in air; then another, and another, like the smoke of Indian
scouts signaling to their tribes. The lights in the windows go out,
one by one; the sharp blast of a whistle cuts the air, the clang of a
bell peals out, the rumble of a wagon is heard, and the street cars
begin their clatter and clang. All this comes floating up to you on
the still morning air, until an ever-increasing crescendo of sounds is
borne in upon you, telling that the town has awakened from its nap,
stretched itself like a drowsy giant, and is ready once more to
grapple with its various problems.
We pass a grove of tall eucalyptus trees on our left, their rugged
trunks like an army of tattered, unkempt giants. From the brink of the
old stone quarry, we gaze down into its prisonlike depths, the
perpendicular walls looking as if they had been carved out of solid
rock to hold some primeval malefactor; then we descend the hill on the
other side to the canon.
[Illustration: THE BOTTOM OF THE CANON]
The view on every side is magnificent. Rising out of the canon, on the
farther side, the rounded domes of the hills, clothed in velvet green,
roll from one to another like huge waves of the ocean, while far to
the right old Grizzly stands majestically above the others, its top
crowned with waving verdure, like the gaudy headdress of some mighty
warrior.
We descend into the canon by a well-marked trail, and the shade of the
trees is most grateful after our walk in the sun. We follow
downstream, where the speckled trout lie hid in the deep pools, and
the song sparrows sing their sweetest, and at last find ourselves at
the object of our quest, opposite the caves.
There are three or four of these, large and small, which were used in
former times by the Indians. We had fully intended to climb the face
of this almost perpendicular cliff, to explore the caves, and
photograph the interiors with the aid of flashlights, but decided that
the climb was too hard, and the ground too wet and slippery for
safety. As a false step or an insecure foothold would send us to the
bottom with broken bones, if not broken necks, we contented ourselves
with photographing the face of the cliff from a safe distance.
Retracing our steps, crossing the stream, and making a long detour, we
tried to reach the caves from above. It was a hard, tedious climb,
over rough and jagged rocks, but after nearly an hour's struggle,
slipping and sliding, holding on to every shrub that offered the
semblance of a grip, we reached the top. Then by a more tedious and
dangerous descent, we reached a large flat rock just above the caves.
Crawling out upon the rock, and venturing as near the edge as we
dared, we found it almost as impossible to reach the caves from above
as from below, and finally gave up the attempt.
[Illustration: WILD-CAT CANON]
But we were well repaid for our rough climb, for a more magnificent
panorama could hardly be found. We looked for miles up and down the
canon, in either direction, so far below us that the head grew dizzy.
The trees followed the tortuous course of the canon, and two men that
we saw far below us looked like pigmies.
Far above us a sparrow hawk circled above the trees, and we were told
that an owl had a nest somewhere among the rocks. We did not look for
it, but certainly nothing but an owl, or some other bird, could ever
hope to scale the rocks successfully. We rested a long time on the top
of the rock, enjoying the view, and regaining our wind for the climb
to the top. This we accomplished without accident, save for the few
scratches incident to such work. It was the season when the flowering
currant puts on its gala dress of pink blossoms, and the banks of the
creek for a long distance were like a flower garden. On the higher
ground the beautiful Zygadene plant, with its pompon of white
star-shaped flowers, and long graceful leaves, grew in profusion.
Maidenhair ferns, the only variety we saw, sent forth their delicate
streamers from every nook and cranny, forming a carpet of exquisite
texture.
When we reached the top of the hill on our return, and looked down
upon Berkeley, the sun was obscured by a high fog, and a cold wind
came up to us from the bay, making us step lively to keep the blood
circulating. We reached home late in the afternoon, worn, and
leg-weary, but well satisfied with our holiday in Wild-cat Canon and
the beautiful Berkeley hills.
[Illustration]
Autumn Days
When bright-hued leaves from tree and thicket fall,
And on the ground their autumn carpet strew;
And overhead the wild geese honking call,
In wedge-shaped column, high amid the blue;
When from the sagebrush, and from mountain high,
The quail's soft note reechoes far and wide;
When hunter moon hangs crescent in the sky,
And wild deer range on rugged mountain side;
When old primeval instincts, nature born,
Stir in the hunter's blood with lust to kill,
And drive him forth with dog and gun, at morn,
To sheltered blind, or runway 'neath the hill--