20 MONTEREY COUNTY WEEKLY october 3-9, 2024 www.montereycountynow.com the mule went down slowly and got away. An hour and a half were spent in finding and getting her. At last all were ready again, and we took our way up the canyon as far as mules could get—and that is saying a good deal—and struck a very narrow, wild canyon leading to a little lake. It was a lovely spot, but a poor place to camp, so we turned back a mile, and camped on the banks of the main stream. I wish I could describe the spot. A deep rocky canyon, with rugged, almost perpendicular sides, but green, grassy bottom, opens into the main canyon, where there is a swift stream of water of crystal clearness, grass and oats abundant for our mules, fine trees scattered around for effect and all around rise high, rugged, rocky mountains. We are now beyond all traces of human homes, but in the abodes of grizzlies and deer. A fire is built, supper (as well as dinner) got, and then we go out to hunt. In 10 minutes Averill is back with a deer, and an hour later the others come in with another, I know not how many deer we saw on that trip. I took a swim in the cool stream—it was refreshing enough after riding on dusty trails and through hot canyons. I wish you could look on such a camp at night. Scattered around are pack-saddles, saddles, bread—and oh, such bread as we had after 60 miles’ travel on a mule’s back in a bag! It needed sifting to get pieces large enough for mouthfuls. The mules are picketed near and around us. They will give the alarm if grizzlies become too familiar. Scattered on the grass around, we lie rolled in our blankets. A rifle peeps out from beneath the blankets here and there—loaded too, for, although grizzlies never molest persons asleep, it is best to have the weapons handy. The bright campfire throws a ruddy glare on the green foliage, which shows black shadows and grim recesses back, and stately trunks and gnarled limbs shine out brighter here and there. But brighter than all, and more beautiful to me, are the stars in the deep, clear, blue sky. One is just trembling over the brow of that rugged mountain, it seems almost to touch it—others are slowly moving behind the trees, or the hills, in their majestic march to the west. The only sound to break the silence of this solitude is the murmur of the streams by us. And thus we sleep—such glorious sleep—sound and refreshing; no bad air, no close smell of feathers, no musty, ill-aired beds from which one rises in the morning with gummy eyes and heavy brain and mouth tasting as if half filled with Glauber’s salts and clay. The shadows were dark in the canyon as we rose, and some choice cuts of venison roasted on the coals were partaken of with a relish that many a hothouse millionaire might well envy. Ah, it was good! We lingered around some; I botanized an hour—and then we took our way back, following nearly our same trail. In one place the trail led along the very brink of a precipice 250 to 300 feet high; one could look down, unobstructed, almost perpendicularly (tourists would say quite so), to the rocks and water so far below. It was as steep as the north bank of Taughannock Falls, by the house, and two-thirds as high, the path scarcely a foot wide. But the mules did not hesitate—they know their own powers—and with loose rein we let them take their way, slowly, surely, now looking steadily at the path, but often swinging their heads over and looking at the abyss below. Where the path ascended a steep slope I got off, not for greater safety so much as to ease my mule, which is most too light for me. But most of them rode here, nor spoke of danger. We got back to Finch’s that night. We found some fossil bones on our way—the backbone of a large fish, not so large as a whale, yet very large. Thousands of acres of these lower hills are covered with wild oats, as thick as a poor oat field at home. These are the “live oats” or “animated oats,” sometimes cultivated at home, and were introduced here from Spain by the old padres. We got back safely on Saturday, June 1, after a pleasant trip, no mishaps, and much of botanical and geological interest, but well tired from the hard riding. Tuesday, July 9 Last night Professor Whitney arrived, bringing with him a topographer, so today our company is quite lively again. I have returned from a trip on the Gabilan hills—quite a ride. Tomorrow the Professor and I will go to Monterey to be gone three or four days. San Juan. July 14 It is a quiet Sunday, and, although the wind blows, it is too hot to write in the tent, so I write in the shade of a fine oak by our camp. My last was sent the first of last week, by express. Well, Professor Whitney arrived on Monday night. Tuesday was spent in arranging some small matters, and Wednesday, July 10, we started for Monterey—Professor Whitney, Averill, and I. We were up at dawn, had our breakfast, and by half past 5 were in our saddles. I took one of the team mules to ride, being stronger than my little one. The early morn was clear, but soon the fog rolled in from the sea, enveloping the hills. It was 39 miles to Monterey, but a mountain trail shortened the distance some five miles, so we took that, although neither of us had ever traveled it. First up a canyon, then across the ridge about a thousand feet high, by a steep winding trail, then down on the other side. Our trail was often obscure, mingling with cattle paths, and the dense fog obscured all landmarks, but in about seven miles we emerged on the Salinas plain, where we took the stage road and crossed the plain. There was some wind, and it was cool, but the fog did not entirely obscure the hills. We stopped at Salinas, and fed both ourselves and our mules, then rode on. On striking the valley that leads up to Monterey for about 16 miles we had hotter air, but not much dust. We arrived before night, and found the town (city, I should say—a city of 600 or 800 population!) in much excitement over a recent discovery of silver mines in the vicinity, but which I don’t think will ever prove of any value. The next morning we went on to Pescadero Ranch, found no one at home, so climbed in by the window, opened the back door, and “took possession.” This was the place where we had encamped so long, you recollect. I had found the geology too much for me, and I wanted Professor Whitney to see it; hence our visit to Monterey, for it was a matter of some importance to settle. Mr. Tompkins, the owner of the I wish I could describe the coast there, the rocks jutting into the sea, teeming with life to an extent you, who have only seen other coasts, cannot appreciate. Ranch homes in Carmel Valley at an unknown location, circa 1880.
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