www.montereycountynow.com october 3-9, 2024 MONTEREY COUNTY WEEKLY 19 arrived. But what a magnificent view I had! A range of hills 2,000 to 3,000 feet high extends from Monterey to Soledad. It is a part of the mountains, yet there is a system of valleys behind, up which we had passed. The Carmelo River follows this a part of the way. I was higher than these hills. Over them, to the northwest, lay the Bay of Monterey, calm, blue and beautiful. Beyond were blue mountains, dim in the haze; to the east was the great Salinas plain, with the mountains beyond, dim in the blue distance. In the immediate foreground was the range of hills alluded to, the Palo Scrito (Sierra de Salinas), in some places covered with oats, now yellow and nearly ripe, in others black with chaparral. Behind lay a wilderness of mountains, rugged, covered with chaparral, forbidding, and desolate. They are nearly inaccessible, and a large region in there has never been explored by white men. I returned by the same way I had come up. There is a most beautiful tree I had not seen before, with foliage something like but even richer than the magnolia—it is a kind of manzanita. It would be splendid in cultivation in a mild climate. Averill and Peter returned without any venison, but Averill brought in an enormous rattlesnake, by far the biggest we have yet seen. He was huge, and, Averill says, decidedly savage when wounded. He was 4-and-a-half feet long, as thick as one’s arm, and had 12 rattles. His head was over an inch and three-quarters broad, with mouth corresponding. I cut out one of his fangs as a specimen. We spent an hour in Mr. Finch’s house that evening. Two brothers, Americans, have a ranch, and are raising horses. Mrs. Finch seemed a meek, sad woman, with more culture arid sensibility than her husband, and evidently pining for other lands and other scenes here in this lonely place, away from the world, almost away from the “rest of mankind.” The house was of sticks plastered with mud, the floor, the earth. Two pretty little girls were playing upon a grizzly skin before the fire. It is a lonely life they lead there. Thursday we took a young man for guide and pushed on, over hills, through canyons, winding, climbing, toiling; our road, cattle trails; our landmarks, mountains. I saw many pretty flowers, some new to me. We struck a fine stream of water that flows toward the Salinas plain at Soledad, 14 miles distant, but it sinks long before that in the arroyo seco, or dry canyon. It was a swift clear stream, and good water on that trip was one of our luxuries. It has been long since I have tasted good water. Here we found a little ranch, Hitchcock’s. The owner was talkative, asked for papers, showed us some fine quicksilver ore, but was too shy to tell us where he found it. He only said it was back in the mountains—“A hell of a place to get to”—which I can easily imagine, if it is six miles farther in than we were, as he said it was. Here we struck up the canyon into the heart of the mountains a few miles, now over a table for a mile, now down a steep bank and crossing the stream, up on the other side, steep as a house roof. But our mules were trusty; Old Sleepy, with his pack, proved himself equal to the occasion, and my old white mule won fresh laurels. Up this canyon the strata are bent, twisted, contorted and broken. I never before saw finer examples of bent strata. They were less grand than the noted ones on Lake Lucerne, but more beautiful. We saw some deer and got a shot—one was wounded, but we did not get him. All had rifles but me; my botanical box and hammer were enough for me. Soon more deer were seen. Peter and the guide started after them. We missed the trail, and in attempting to cross the stream and climb the bank came near having an accident. The bank had a slope of 45 degrees; the path wound up it at 29 degrees—I measured it. Averill’s mule trod on loose stones and went down. A mule never slips, but here the path slipped. Averill got off and saved himself, but Back from a hunt, men pose for a photo in Carmel Valley, circa 1875.
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