Here are J. Smeaton Chase’s Impressions, as he observed the Coastside from atop his horse.
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Story from John Vonderlin
Email John ([email protected])
Hi June,
The following is an excerpt from a book entitled
“California Coast Trails, a Horseback Ride from
Mexico to Oregon.” It was authored by Joseph
Smeaton Chase 
and published in 1913. It is
available to be read at Archive.org. I’ve
attached a picture of Mr. Chase along with a short
bio. Anton is his faithful steed.
Enjoy John
“So we lounged along, a mile an hour. Anton was
always curious about my note-book. Usually I did
my scribbling in the saddle, but when I was leading
him and stopped to write, he would watch me with
his head a little cocked and a puzzled air that plainly
asked, “What on earth are you always up to with
that bit of stick?” After some miles we crossed the
west fork of Waddell Creek at a lovely place of dim
pools, mossed rocks, and waving ferns. Reaching the
next crest, on a sudden we were among arid brush
and digger-pines, with a blaze of sunlight reflected
from a white, shaly soil . After the hours of greenness
and “dim religious light” the change was startling.
At the next rise I looked out upon the familiar
sight of a deep seaward canon up which the fog was
creeping. Its waves were just rosied by the evening
sun, and timbered shoulders of mountain stood up,
darkly purple, through the fleecy sea. Down this
canon we pursued our way in thoughtful mood at-
tuned to the gathering shadows, and came by dusk
to a lonely ranch where I made application for our
lodging. The good people made us welcome, and I en-
joyed the unwonted luxury of a table piled with mag-
azines beside the social hearth of a cultivated family.
A few miles of travel next day down the cafion of
Whitehouse Creek brought me to the coast at
Franklin Point. A thin mist overhung sea and shore,
and through it I could dimly see in the south Point
Ano Nuevo, with a lighthouse on the adjacent little
island. The coast here, though not high, is pictur-
esque with scattered rocks and a sea vexed into con-
tinual turmoil.
Five miles to the north is the hamlet of Pigeon
Point. A handsome lighthouse stands on the cliff.
I like to pay my respects to these beneficent senti-
nels, so I called there, and was courteously shown over
the building by one of the officers, who explained
to me the latest triumphs of invention in lighthouse
equipment.
From Pigeon Point the road passed for mile on
mile through a gray land, inordinately dusty, and
palliated only by occasional boons in the shape of
thickets of goldenrod or a sprinkling of lavender
asters. A dull sea with an uneasy voice kept us close
company, and about once an hour we met a team or
passed a lichened farmhouse. After crossing a la-
goon which lies at the mouth of the Arroyo de los
Frijoles, — thus does the Spanish aggrandize even
humble Bean Creek, — the road lay along the cliff
beside Pebble Beach, locally famous for agates and
moonstones. A hotel stood on the bluff, with no
other house in sight and no appearance of having
so much as a solitary guest to entertain. Its windy
desolation was so discouraging that I could not
bring myself to try their entertainment, though it
was time to think of stopping. Before long I found
a road leading inland, and turning into it came to
a broad green cafion with a winding creek. A couple
of miles away I saw the little town of Pescadero,
standing prettily backed by wooded ridges, its white
houses shining in the evening sun. In due course we
marched into town, where I was just in time for
supper at the comfortable inn.
The experience of Moss Landing was repeated.
A party of bibulous sportsmen arrived during the
evening and pervaded the place with noise and pro-
fanity. When I learned that the noisiest, thirstiest,
and most obscene of the group was a banker of
San Francisco, I congratulated myself that no funds
of mine were in his keeping, and hoped that warning
visions might be vouchsafed to his clients in their
dreams.
Dust and wild flowers — Half Moon Bay — “Gilt-edged” real-
estate — The Montara Mountain coast — First view of San
Francisco Bay —
In the last day’s travel we had crossed from Santa
Cruz into San Mateo County. Now ensued
twenty miles of dreadful dust, but compensated by
a grateful scarcity of automobiles, though we were
now nearing San Francisco and were almost in the
latitude of the southern end of the bay. The coast
road is continuously hilly, and the great bulk of
travel follows the level inland road by way of Palo
Alto and San Jose. Brown, monotonous hills rolled
along on the east, treeless but for occasional clumps
of eucalyptus that marked the rare farmhouses.
Now and then the road came out upon high whitish
cliffs fringed with a broad band of surf, the growl of
which was a matter of never-failing interest to Anton.
Fog obscured the ocean at a mile or two from
shore. The roadside bushes were drab with five
months of drought, but a few asters and late wild
roses still kept their cheerful smiles, and their petals
were as pure and bright as though newly washed by
the rains of spring, — a miracle which I never cease
to admire in wild flowers in general, and those of
our dry California summers especially.
At the village of San Gregorio I noted one reason
for the small amount of travel on the road when I
saw the collection of wagons that were drawn up
awaiting their drivers, who were circulating indus-
triously from saloon to saloon. Nearing Tunitas
Creek, we were greeted by the screech of a loco-
motive, and I found that we were at the temporary
terminus of the Ocean Shore Railroad, which comes
down the coast thus far from San Francisco.
Then we passed a straggling settlement named
Purisima, the capital, so to speak, of a grant of land
enjoying the lengthy title of Canada Verde y Arroyo
de la Purisima; and soon arrived at the town of
Half Moon Bay, lying a mile inland from the shore
of the bay itself, which I could see curving round to
the northwest, where it terminated in the promon-
tory of Pillar Point. It was still fairly early, but I
felt really unable to face any more dust for one day.
So we sought our respective quarters, and I, for my
part, subsided without delay into a bath.
Next day was the equinox, and the morning was
dull, threatening (or, a better way of putting it,
promising) rain. We were early on the road, which
rounded the head of the bay, passing through a num-
ber of new-born “cities” whose existence was to be
known mainly by pitiful little cement sidewalks,
already bulging and broken. Each place in succes-
sion adjured me by stentorian sign-boards not to
miss the wealth that awaited investors in its “gilt-
edged” lots. It was a boon to exchange the songs
of these financial sirens for the charms of a sea and
sky alike of wistful gray, lighted ever and anon by
gleams of gold that bore no hint of real estate.
The road came again to the shore at Montara
Point, where there is a small lighthouse. A mile
ahead a fine mountain came sharply to the sea, and
I could trace a road graded steeply over It. I had not
expected another taste of the mountains so near as
I now was to San Francisco, and I rejoiced at the
sight. We soon began the climb, which brought mag-
nificent views of cllfif and sea, often several hundred
feet almost sheer below.
The mist lay thickly over the water at a little dis-
tance from shore, and I had to leave to the mind’s
eye the view I had anticipated, of the sails or smoke
of many vessels making to the Golden Gate. From
the summit of the grade I looked out to the north
upon the green valley of San Pedro and the long
line of cllfif shore that runs to the entrance of the
great bay. Below, the fine headland of San Pedro
Point stood out to the west, ending in a picturesque
little Island pinnacled like an iceberg; and farther
to the north I could just discern the outline of the
high, bold coast of Marin.
A steep descent followed by a few miles of no-
notonous road brought us to Laguna Salada, where
I found an ambitious hotel and another array of
empty streets and avenues. Then came a winding
road, which at length turned inland and climbed a
long ascent. At the top I turned in my saddle to
take, as I thought, a backward view of the country
I had been travelling. To my surprise I saw no-
thing that I could recognize, but, instead, a coast-
line entirely strange to me. After a puzzled moment
it dawned upon me that I was looking down upon the
Bay of San Francisco, and we took a few minutes
rest while I digested the fact and congratulated
myself on having reached this salient point of the
expedition.
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California Coast Trails: In 1911, Chase journeyed 2,000 miles on horseback from Mexico to Oregon and intimately recorded his experiences along the way. In his journals, Chase poetically provides a glimpse of California’s towns and wilderness as they appeared at the beginning of the 20th century.
J. Smeaton Chase (1864-1923) American Author.
J. Smeaton Chase has become an integral part of California literature: revered for his poignant descriptions of California landscapes. An Englishman who toured the Santa Rosa and San Jacinto mountains in 1915 with his burro, Mesquit, Chase published poetic diary entries detailing his escapades through the Sierra Nevada mountains and California desert.
Joseph Smeaton Chase was born in London in April 1864. He arrived in Southern California in 1890, although information surrounding his motive for doing so is sparse. It is known however, that he lived on a mountainside and managed to obtain a job tutoring a wealthy rancher’s children in the San Gabriel Valley. Chase was always drawn to the plants, animals, and Native Americans that resided along the California coast. Subsequently, in 1911 he took a trip with local painter Carl Eytel, traveling on horseback from Los Angeles to Laguna and then down to San Diego. Chase journeyed through the uncouth California land and detailed his escapades in his book California Desert Trails.[1] He was passionate that the Santa Rosa and San Jacinto mountains be preserved as a national park. Chase appeals to readers who appreciate the unspoiled west and California history.