Story from John Vonderlin
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This appeared in the August 31st, 1890, issue of “The Morning Call.” Enjoy. John
SUNDAY EDITION.
SAN FRANCISCO TO SANTA CRUZ. The Beauty of the Natural Scen –
ery Along the Coast Line. LOOKING FOR GEMS ON THE BEACH Sea Lions That Disport in the Waters
Near Halfmoon Bay—A Town Properly Named—Ruins of the Old Landing at ” Gordon Chute.” The Redwood Forests in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Written for The Morning Call There are few, if any, great cities of the
world surrounded by more strik –
ing natural scenery than San Fran – cisco enjoys. You may take a boat, or a train, or a stage, or your own horse and buggy, and start out toward any point of the compass, and you cannot fail to be sur – prised and pleased with what you see. Within this last two years I have dutifully trudged over the hills and plains around New York, Washington, Chicago, Omaha, St. Louis, Los Angeles and several conisiderable towns of smaller size and less note. Books of travel are stupid in – deed, compared with what an idle rambler sees on such excursions. If he has good eyes aud reasonably good legs, he can walk around the suburbs and back into town, and tell the natives more about the city in five minutes than they had learned in all their lives. I had a nurse in New York who had been in the business in that city for thirty years, going from house to house and nursingj the sick, and yet I had to tell her the course of the Harlem River. But this leads me to remark that San Francis – cans are not so green. They know more about their environs than do the denizens of any city I have been over, except Los Angeles. And yet I venture to say that after four months of sojourn in the vicinity I could show the great majority of them, within thirty unit’s of town, scenes of beauty and grandeur which would be new and amazing to them. When Robert Louis Stevenson was here, bent on an errand similar to mine, “thin-legged, thin-chested, slight unspeakably, near-footed and weak – fingered,” as the poet has described him, he went north a hundred miles to hide and rest, and then came out aud published his “Silverado .Squatters.” Indeed, it is a nice trip to the Sonoma County Geysers, but my favorite haunts are in another direc – tion. The whole coast is pretty, from the Cliff House at San Francisco to the Cliff Drive at Santa Cruz. Considering its beauties it is too little known—less perhaps than any pleasure ground adjacent to the city. Some are familiar with it, or it could not properly be called a pleasure ground. Its Halfmoon Bay, its Pebble Beach, its Mossy Beacb, its
Pescadero, its Pigeon Point Lighthouse and its big basin of gigantic trees have all been heard of, but no railroad leads there, and only those are familiar with them who have the courage to stage it or the means TO GO CAMPING
Taking the train at the corner of Third
and Townsend streets, you go to San Ma – teo. I took the morning train at 8:30. This connects with the stage at San Mateo, and from there you have a drive across the mountains to Spanishtown, passing on your way the immense reservoir of the Spring Valley Water Company, which looks like a mountain lake and supplies a large part ol the city’s water. At Spanishtown you are on the coast The stage stops for dinner and gives you ample time. Perhaps you will be told, as I was, that the place was so named from the fact that it really was a Spanish town originally. Inasmuch (sic) as the same name might, for the same reason, have been ap – plied to any other old town in the State, you make a note here at the threshold of your journey. The chances are that after looking it over you will say that of all the Spanish towns you have seen in the State this quaint and curious hamlet best befits the name. At any rate you will say that no Spaniard need be ashamed of it. From Spanishtown southward along the coast you will find all you want of the weird and wonderful. To your left will be the mountains, with cottages aud groves of giant redwoods, criss-crossed with fences. On your right is the ocean, with a shore line of wondrous beauty. Across your path – way, from the mountains to the sea, runs every mile or two a trout stream of roman – tic outline and drowsy murmur. Follow it up and you are soon lost In a grove of red – woods, compared with which any tree east of the Rocky Mountains is a scrub. Trees 250 leet high, ten or a dozen feet through, are as thick as hoop-poles an stand as near to San Francisco as one end of Chicago is to the other. I have had no greater surprise in Cali – fornia than these two, that the big trees stand so thick on the ground and so close to San Francisco. You might see bigger sequoias in Calaveras, Mariposa or Tulare County. But a tree one rod in diameter and twenty rods in height is big enough for either the lumberman or the ordinary sight – seer. Aud you can find bigger trees than that between Sutro Heights and Santa Cruz. The shore itself is hilly most of the way. As you drive over the hills you get views of indescribable grandeur. Such beaches, such : cliffs, such rocks, such caverns, such miles ol surf, yon may have seen, but I haven’t. At the Doble ranch, below Halfmoon Bay, you may leave the road, drive
through the barnyard gate and across a pasture, and there you will see sea lion rocks which beat those at the Cliff House two to one. There are ten times as many sea lions and they are more easily seen. I never tire of watching them. Many a one has been cuuaht here for the menageries. A SUMMER. STROLL On the beach will give you a young sea lion for a pet, and if you like, you may proceed at once to pet him. He will bark at you, but he won’t bite. His parents might, if they saw you near him. They weigh, per – haps, a ton apiece. By the way, attention should be called to a bad practice of natives or tourists at this point. They shoot the sea lions. Anybody could shoot one who could shoot the side of a barn if he was inside and had the door closed, so there is no sport in it. The monstrous carcasses float ashore and fill the air with stench. Is there no law to prevent such wantonness? or is the trouble in the enforcement of the law? The last time I was there the fine beach at tho mouth of Tumitas Creek was strewn with half a dozen carcasses of all sizes in all stages of decomposition. Tunitas Creek is said to be named after a plant which abounds at its mouth, and which has a long, thick, fleshy leaf and an aster-like flower. The stage road crosses ‘ the creek on a bridge appropriately called
the Long Bridge. Near by is the Gordon Chute, one ot the wrecks of old landings so familiar to the people down that coast. Tlie great warehouse is still there, and the deserted cottages of the superintendent and employes. The old pier, disconnected from the shore and inaccessible, is as weird a skeleton as ever stretched its arms across a Western ocean sky at sunset. Follow the windings of the cliff at this point and you will see some two dozen caves, from one to six rods deep, which you may penetrate at low tide, but into which the water rolls and churns and thunders at high tide. You may hear the story of the three sea-lion catchers whom the tide caught in one of the deepest of these caves and held there all night. From these cliffs I had a fine view of several whales quite near to shore, and have generally been, for – tunate enough to sight one or two. All that country is a fine hunting grounid. As for fish, you can get all the trout you want and also surf fish and other sea fish. Clams aud mussels abound. A county road has been surveyed through, which, when completed, will give a short line from the great Stanford University to as pretty a spot as there is on the coast. It follows down Tunitas Creek to the Long Bridge at the old Potter ranch, where stands the ideal “cottage by the sea.” Pescadero is too well known to require description, but its Pebble Beach ought to be seen. There is something wild and awe- inspiring in the peculiar formation of the great rocks over which the water dashes. One would not suppose that so flat a shore could be so grand. There was NO SAND ON THE BEACH When I was there—nothing but clean peb –
bles. It was like walking on a bin of beans. They are several feet deep, you will see the tourist lady or gentleman stretched at full length and pawing the beach over for gems. Patience aud skill are pretty sure to win a fine collection. Within a few miles of Pescadero you may bury yourself in a virgin forest of red – vioods untouched by the ax. I have seen train-loads of tourists go wild over a clump of saplings. . Go with me from San Francisco to Santa Cruz in a one-horse buggy and I will show you grove after grove of monsters so tall that you could not see a squirrel at their tops and so thick on the ground that you would be lucky to shoot a deer within easy range. I spent a counle of weeks in the haunts of Rip Van Winkle. The scene of that slory was happily laid and I am as familiar with the waterfall and the dense grove where he. slept for twenty years as with the Jolly face of Joe Jefferson and tho long beard, ragged clothes and broken gun which appear on the stage. I haven’t seen a wilder, sleepier spot on this coast, but within much less than a day’s drive of San Francisco I will show you Rip’s long resting place, with all its dreamy seclusion, with its trees and its hill and its Kaaterskill and its old saw-mill grown a hundred-fold in size and grandeur. You shall have the mountain lake and all, except the 260 foot waterfall. We should want to linger a whole sum – mer long from Halfmoon Bay to Pescadero, bul if we do go on here is Mossy Beach, as famed tor its mosses as Pebble Beach for its pebbles, and here is P’igeon Point, where you may climb the light-house tower above 100 feet and see one of the most modern of flash-lanterns. They won’t let you inside the lantern now. but half a dozen people could find room in there. I had the oppor – tunity of hearing the fog-horn at night at Pescadero, six miles away. A little further down you follow the stage road where it leaves terra firma and takes the beach for two or three miles. Keep close to the water’s edge for a good hard road, and let the brine lave your
buggy-wheels. We had company along this part of our Journey. It was a live coyote. The bank was steep and he had no escape, so he trotted along by our side, looking anxiously for a hole in the bank, and all the time within easy shot. His dis – appearance was complete and sudden, and left us wondering whither he had gone. We leave the beach at the mouth of Wad – dell Creek, where we hear the story of .Mr. Waddell who was KILLED BY A BEAR. In the camping season the banks of the
creek are white with tents. Passing on – ward down the coast the rest of the drive to Santa Cruz is pretty and interesting, and of course the last two or three miles—famed for beaches, cliffs, natural bridges and live drives—need not be described. About nine miles north of Sauta Cruz we met a large party of railroad surveyors run- ning a line for the Southern Pacific, said to be for the purpose of tapping the immense deposits of bituminous rock in that region. Will they push it through? Will a railroad ever be built up that coast? It will be ex – pensive, perhaps, but it would open up timber lands and pass through soil not ex – celled in the State for raising hogs, cattle, horses, poultry, potatoes and all bulky vegetables, apples and pears and the small fruits, here is the best of land, a little rough, but cheaper than land not half as good can be found as near to any other American city. Shut out from the rest of the world by a high range of mountains on one side and a wide ocean on tbe other, it is now devoted to pasturage. A rail – road would divert it to the uses which make business for railroads—the production of bulky products. It is a well-watered country and would make thousands of homes for the busy, energetic, thriving classes to whom it is suited. Coming from the rolling States of the East they would feel more at home here than in any part of California that I have seen. This feeling would be increased by the greater simi – larity of the products and methods ol farming to those of the East. Variety and grandeur ol scenery, proximity to a great city, abundance of wood and water, evenness of temperature, all would be there, and half the energy which has been wasted on that many square miles at the other end of the State would give this region a boom too big to be healthy. Let me express the
hope that it will rather have a steady growth, but let it soon get the .start that has been so long in coming. Half the profit of a ramble through strange, scenes is gained or lost by the kind of traveling companion you have. In this I have been fortunate in all my journeyings about San Francisco. Perry Morrison, who has kindly taken me on these delightful trips, is a forty-niner of the best type, who has recently extended his domains on the coast from sheer enthusiasm and faith in it. His seaside home is at Potter ranch, by the Long Bridge, near the famous ranch of Creed Haymond, and just at tbe point where the shortest road from tbe Stanford University will strike the. seashore. The road is now impassable from washouts, but when fin – ished is destined to be one of the finest drives in the United States. Of Mr. Hay – mond’s ranch, and the work he is doing to make it both profitable and beautiful, too much cannot be said. It is high up on the mountains and it looks down on the bound – less ocean. It is whispered that Mrs. Stan – ford will yet have a cottage there. Henry Philpott |