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 Canon, and was surprised at finding a charming wooded road winding up through the canon 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 Canon, 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 canon, 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 canon and winds out upon the open mountain-side. Here the chaparral is green and flourishing.
We wind abruptly into a canon. 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 canon, 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 and 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.
