by Kate Sanborn
PART SECOND.
Same garden. Goddess on her throne, surrounded by her pages. She summons the Harlequin, who in turn brings the Roses of Castile. They bring offering of flowers to the Goddess, and perform a dance.
Goddess again summons Harlequin, who, by great effort, brings the Roses of the Snow, or the Little Girls from Boston, led by Frost Maiden. They perform a dance and retire. Both Harlequins enter, perform a dance, and command the blooming of the Pink Rose Buds. Pink Rose Buds enter without offering for the Goddess, and prevail upon the Harlequins to help them out of their difficulties. The Harlequins send Poppies for the great La France Rose Buds as an offering, and perform “The Transformation of the Rose.” Rose Buds dance and are joined by the little Roses in the Snow. All dance and retire. Enter White Harlequin, who calls for the White Rose dance by the Greek maidens. They perform ceremonies and deck the altar of their Goddess, dance and retire. Curtain.
PART THIRD.
Grand march. Tableau, with falling Rose petals, in the magic cañon.
And not a word yet of The Raymond, that popular house set upon a hill that commands a view hard to equal. The house is always filled to overflowing, and this year General Wentworth tells me the business has been better than ever. This famous resort is in East Pasadena, and has its own station. It is always closed in April, just at the time when there is the most to see and enjoy, and the flowers are left to bloom unseen.
The other fine hotel here, named for its owner, Colonel Green of “August Flower” fame, is on ground eight feet higher, although by the conformation of the land it does not look so.
Many prefer to be in the town and nearer the mountains, and this house proving insufficient for its patrons, an addition four times the size of the present building is being added in semi-Moorish architecture, at a cost of $300,000.
That item shows what an experienced man of business thinks about the future of Pasadena.
The town is full of pleasant boarding-houses, as Mrs. Dexter’s, Mrs. Bangs’s, and Mrs. Roberts’s, and many enjoy having rooms at one house and taking meals at another. You can spend as much or as little as you choose. At Mrs. Snyder’s I found simple but delicious old-fashioned home-cooking at most reasonable rates.
And still more? Yes, the Public Library must be mentioned, the valuable collections I was permitted to see, the old mission of San Gabriel three miles away, and then I shall give the next chapter to my brother, who spent a week on Mt. Wilson, and came down wonderfully benefited even by that short stay. One invalid he met there had gained four pounds in as many days. His ambition now is to open a law office up among the clouds and transact business by telephone, saying the fact that his clients could not see him would be no disadvantage.
While he is discoursing I will be studying the history of the Indian baskets and report later.
CHAPTER VII.
CAMPING ON MOUNT WILSON.
“On every height there lies repose.”
At Pasadena the mountain wall which guards the California of the South stands very near and looks down with pride upon the blooming garden below. The mountains which belong especially to Pasadena are but three miles away. Their average height exceeds slightly that of the Mt. Washington range in New Hampshire. The Sierra Madre system, of which they form a part, contains some peaks considerably higher.
Farther to the East, “Old Baldy”—Mt. San Antonio—raises its snowy summit to a height just close enough to ten thousand feet to test the veracity of its admirers. It is about ten miles from Pasadena by the eyes, but would be twenty by the feet, if they could walk an air line.
To the south and east of “Old Baldy” is Mt. San Jacinto, 12,000 feet above the Pacific, upon which it looks, in the far distance.
The majestic mountain wall, almost bending over the homes of Pasadena, with their vines and fig trees, their roses and lilies, their orchards of orange and lemon, and the distant snow-clad peaks glittering in the gentle sunshine, combine to form a perfect picture. There are detailed descriptions from the pens of those who feel an unctuous joy in painting the lily, kalsomining the calla, and adding perfumes to the violet, the rose, and the orange.
The “Pasadena Alps” are so smeared with oleaginous gush that I had conceived against them a sort of antipathy, which was not diminished by their barren, treeless appearance.
As Nature reasserted herself, this artificial nausea wore away. I took a drive to Millard’s Cañon, and was surprised at finding a charming wooded road winding up through the cañon along a mountain stream. From the end of the carriage-road we walked half a mile to a picturesque waterfall having a sheer descent of perhaps forty feet.
This revelation inspired a drive to Eaton’s Cañon, where I found similar attractions, and which led me to the new Mt. Wilson trail, or “Toll Road.” I made inquiries, inspected the small but substantial mules which do the pedestrian part of the trip, went up the trail a short distance, and, after many assurances, arranged to make the ascent.
In fact, this trail is remarkably well built. It winds up the mountain by a gradual and even ascent of nine miles, the grade nowhere exceeding ten per cent. There are two camps near the summit, open all the year. You may return the same day or stay for the remainder of your life.
Take little luggage, of course: a heavy overcoat or wrap, and a small grip. In the winter the nights are cold, and clouds and rain are not unlikely to present the compliments of the season.
The mountains of California are as topsy-turvy as its rivers. We used to learn in our physical geographies that as the traveller ascends a mountain the large trees continually give place to smaller—shrinking at last to stunted shrubs, with a summit of barren rock.
As our mules plod up Mt. Wilson, the trail at first is sandy, and the mountain’s flanks a barren waste, with thin covering of cactus and chaparral. Half a mile from the starting-point appear small bushes, which grow larger as we move upward. The trail turns into a cañon, and becomes a hard, cool pathway leading up through small live-oaks and high growth of bushes. We begin to see slender pines and larger oaks. Now the trail leaves the cañon and winds out upon the open mountain-side. Here the chaparral is green and flourishing.
We wind abruptly into a cañon. Bushes of wild lilac overhang the path. The manzanita reminds one of lilies of the valley transplanted to California and growing on a bush. Down to the torrent at the bottom of the cañon, and up its steep side, are large pines and live-oaks, mountain mahogany and cedar. Near the summit we wind along a precipice where the trail is blasted from the solid rock. Even here, any one who is disposed to “look aloft” will see pine trees hanging over his head hundreds of feet above.
The summit is a forest of towering trees. On the topmost ridges are the monarchs of the mountains—oaks three and four feet, and pines four and five feet in diameter. Of course this increase in the size of timber is noticeably uniform, only where the soil and natural features of the mountains favor it. But the summit of Mt. Wilson, at least, resembles a picnic ground raised nearly six thousand feet above the sea. The air is light, dry, and exhilarating. The ground is carpeted with pine needles. Delicate wildflowers are seen in their season. In April I found wild peas in blossom, harebells, morning-glories, poppies, and many varieties of yellow flowers. I also saw hummingbirds, butterflies, swallows, and squirrels, and here and there patches of plain white old-fashioned snow. It is a novel spectacle to see a small boy snowballing a butterfly. In the spring even dead trees are glorified with a mantle of golden green moss. It covers the trunks of some of the living pines, making an artistic background for the deep green of their boughs.
From this upside-down mountain we look down upon rivers flowing bottom side up. And that is California.
As to the safety of the ascent, no one need hesitate who is free from settled prejudice against a side-hill. You will soon let the reins hang from the pommel of the saddle. One who chooses may jump off and walk for a change. Only, if you are at the end of the procession, be careful to keep between your mule an
d the foot of the mountain; otherwise he will wheel around and wend his way homeward. If toiling along near the summit, absorbed in the beauties of the prospect, it might be awkward to feel the halter jerked from your hand and to see the mule galloping around a sharp bend with your satchel, hung loosely over the pommel, bobbing violently up and down, and perhaps hurled off into space as the intelligent animal rounds the corner.
Yes, it is safe, but there is a spice of excitement about it. I was nervous at first, and seeing that the mule wished to nibble such herbage as offered itself, I had thought it well to humor him. At a narrow space with sharp declivity below, the beast fixed his jaws upon a small tough bush on the upper bank. As he warmed up to the work, his hind feet worked around toward the edge of the chasm. The bush began to come out by the roots, which seemed to be without end. As the weight of the mule was thrown heavily backward, I looked forward with some apprehension to the time when the root should finally give way: I saw now that the mule had fixed his stubborn jaws upon the entrails of the mountain, and expected every instant to see other vital organs brought to light. I dared not and could not move. The root gave way, allowing the mule to fall backward, and startling him with a rattling down of stones and gravel. One foot slipped over the edge, but three stuck to the path, and the majority prevailed. After that I saw it was safer to let my faithful beast graze on the outer edge. All went well until he became absorbed in following downward the foliage of a bush which grew up from below. As he stretched his neck farther and farther down, I saw that he was bending his forelegs. His shoulders sank more and more. There was nothing between me and the sea-level except the mule’s ears. By frantic exertions I worked myself backward, and was sliding down behind—too late. The bush broke, causing the mule to fall back forcibly against the inner bank, with myself sandwiched between the adamantine wall of the mountain and the well-shod heels of the mule. The animal, being as much scared as myself, started up the trail at a gallop. I had saved my life but lost my mule. I have no taste for overtaking runaway mules on a steep and interminable up-grade. It is a taste which must be acquired. But then, of course, the mule would turn after his first alarm and tear down to the stable. I resolved to push on in the hope of finding a wider portion of the path, or at least of meeting the animal before he had acquired uncontrollable momentum.
At the very first turn a boy appeared hurrying back with my palfry. The mule had galloped on until he overtook the rest of the party, who had sent him back in haste, while they followed on as quickly as possible.
It flashed upon my mind that the mule understands his business. We imagine, egotistically, that the mule is all the time thinking about us, and that he may take umbrage at some fancied slight and leap with us down the abyss. Now the mule does not care to make the descent in that way. He is thinking about himself just like the rest of us. We are only so much freight packed upon his back.
The foregoing narrative may be exaggerated in some details, but the essential facts remain, that the mule has a healthy appetite and that he looks out for himself.
A little further on I had an opportunity to judge how a passenger would conduct himself if he should be thrown from the trail. At the point where the slope of the mountains is most abrupt, certain repairs had lately been made upon the trail, and a man was now prying large stones over the edge. They rolled and tumbled down, taking wild leaps into the air and plunging from rock to rock. After they disappeared in the woods we could hear them crashing and clattering down the cañon. A small avalanche of broken fragments followed in their wake.
It must have been a fine sight when the blasting was first done in the side of the rocky precipice: when huge masses of rock, half as big as a house, were rent from the side of the mountain and thundered down with frightful crash, cutting off huge trees and shaking the very mountains. And now I will say again that the trail is wide and safe; the slopes on the side are seldom very steep, and the mules could not be pushed over by any available power.
Some people, in fact, prefer the old trail because it is more wild and romantic and not so well kept. The new road has enough picturesque features to satisfy me.
I remember when the valley came in sight again, after half an hour’s climbing, the first objects to catch my eye were the storage reservoirs, which dot the valley and are used in irrigation. Their regular shapes and the margins of masonry about them give them, from the mountains, the appearance of mirrors. One seemed almost directly below. Probably it was at least a hundred feet in length. In the form of a rectangle with rounded corners, it was the exact counterpart of a framed mirror. The surface was like polished glass, and trees upon the bank were reflected with beautiful distinctness.
After another half-hour’s ride comes a glimpse in the other direction. Through a gap in the mountains we look for a moment behind the hills of Pasadena into the heart of the Sierra Madre. Vistas of mountain-sides are seen on either hand, one beyond the other, the long slope of one slightly overlapping that of its nearer neighbor, offering for our inspection a succession of blue tints, becoming more and more delicate in the distance till they melt into the sky.
The mules care less for visible azure than for edible verdure, and soon carried us by this picture. Far up the trail is a pretty scene upon our own mountain. Suddenly we came out of the cool, wild forest upon a little level spot, by the spring of the mountain stream. Here is an old camp with green grass growing up about the deserted building. After a final winding journey around the steep southerly side of the mountain, came the first full view of the wild chaos of broken ranges toward the desert. Then follows a gradual shaded ascent to the camp. The world has varied panoramas of mountain scenery “set off” by the glitter of snowy peaks. In California there are many accessible summits rising from half-tropical valleys. Mountains which overlook the sea are without number. There may be in America other points from which one may look down upon a “city of homes,” and a “business centre” with sixty thousand busy inhabitants. I do not know any spot apart from the mountains of Pasadena where you may put all of these in combination. From the northerly peak of Mt. Wilson to the southerly peak of Mt. Harvard is a distance by trail along the ridge of perhaps three miles, offering a variety of points of view. To the north and east you may look down into a gorge two thousand feet beneath, from which rises on the gentle breeze the mingled voice of brawling brook and murmuring pines. Beyond is a confusion of green mountains, from which a range of white summits rises in the calm distance. Toward the south are solitary peaks with halos of fleecy cloud.
As for the prospect in the other direction, it shows at once that the way to print upon the mind a map of California’s physical formation is to see it a la bird’s-eye—as the short path to acquaintance with a great city is a vertical one—to the tower of the City Hall.
One would require but a few more well-selected stations to map out all of Southern California.
The several valleys of which Los Angeles is the commercial capital are stretched out before us like perfectly level plains, divided by ranges of hills. In the distance lies the glistening Pacific, with the blue outlines of Catalina and more distant islands etched upon the western sky. This picture is sometimes so distinct that you find yourself trying to recognize acquaintances on the streets of Pasadena. Again everything is dreamy with haze. Another morning you may stumble out trying to rub yesterday’s sunburn from your eyes, and find everything below curtained by a bank of snowy fog. As for myself, I enjoy the prospect most when I cannot see it at all—that is, at night.
There is a varied interchange of signals between the mountains and the valley. At noon the people here talk with their Pasadena friends by gleaming flashlight. Then there are the reservoirs scattered over the valley. In certain lights they are not seen at all, but in line with the sun they send up great flash signals themselves, and just after sunset they are always seen reflecting the calm twilight. An hour after sunset our camp-fire is lighted. As we stand by it, the horizon seems to have retired for the night. There is
continuous sky, shading without a break into the shadows below. Gazing dreamily down, I am startled by the flashing forth of a hundred brilliant stars from what was the valley below. They disappear for a moment and then blaze out and become a permanent constellation. These stars are too numerous to resemble any known constellation. I concluded after a little that the mighty Orion had drawn his sword and slain the Great Bear; that the lion had rashly interfered and his carcass had been dragged to that of the bear, and that the exhausted Orion had thrown himself wearily upon them to rest. And there are the Pleiades close by; with feminine curiosity they have come as near as they dared, to see what it is all about.
Those wishing a scientific explanation of these phenomena must consult the Pasadena Electric Lighting Company, except as to the stray Pleiades, which seem to have some connection with the lights of the Raymond Hotel.
But what is that dim and curious meteor slowly moving toward the spot where Los Angeles used to be? Perhaps it is the headlight which heralds the coming of the belated overland train. Suddenly I see out of the darkness beyond Pasadena the blazing forth of a majestic cross, of wavering, uneven outline, but made up of crowded multitudes of sparkling, glittering, scintillating stars. Los Angeles has substantially the same system of street illumination as Pasadena.
You will note that I have abstained from hauling the sun above the eastern Sierras in the morning, and from tucking it under the Pacific at night. This rearrangement of ponderous constellations is all that my strength and my other engagements will permit. Those who want to know the glories of the sunset and moonlight must climb Mt. Wilson themselves.
