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 canon. 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
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.
CHAPTER VIII.
CATCHING UP ON THE KITE-SHAPED TRACK.
Not the kite-shaped track of new-made trotting records and pneumatic tires, but a track upon which you may pass a pleasant day riding after the iron horse.
The route extends easterly from Los Angeles to San Bernardino
Taking the traveller back and forth across the central part of Southern California as it does, the kite-shaped trip is naturally a favorite with tourists, and, as its “catchy” name indicates, it caters to that element of travel. One always sees also anxious and eager “prospectors” or expectant settlers, who lose no opportunity to inquire all about
