A Tramp Through the Bret Harte Country
T >>
Thomas Dykes Beasley >> A Tramp Through the Bret Harte Country
It is only twelve miles from Sonora to Tuolumne. From the top of the
divide which separates the valleys there is a beautiful view of the
surrounding country, the dim blue peaks of the Sierra Nevada forming the
eastern sky-line. One of the chief charms of an excursion through these
foothill counties is the certainty that directly you reach any
considerable elevation there will be revealed a magnificent panorama,
bounded only by the limit of vision, range after range of mountains
running up in varying shades of blue and purple, to the far distant
summits that indicate the backbone of California.
Tuolumne is situated in a circular basin rather than in a valley, and
thus being protected from the wind, in hot weather the heat is intense.
If there are any mining operations in the immediate vicinity, they are
not in evidence to the casual observer. It is, however, one of the
biggest timber camps in the State. In the yards of the West Side Lumber
Company, covering several hundred acres, are stacked something like
30,000,000 feet of sugar pine. The logs are brought from the mountains
twenty to twenty-five miles by rail, and sawn into lumber at Tuolumne. I
was told that the bulk of the lumber manufactured here was shipped
abroad, a great deal going to Australia.
Tuolumne, in Bret Harte's time, was called Summersville. It was
destroyed by fire about fourteen years ago, but the new town has already
so assimilated itself to the atmosphere of its surroundings, that its
comparative youth might easily escape detection. Altogether, I was
disappointed with Tuolumne, having expected to find a second Angel's,
owing to its prominence in Bret Harte's stories. A lumber camp, while an
excellent thing in its way, is neither picturesque nor inspiring. I
spent the night at the "Turnback Inn," a large frame building,
handsomely finished interiorly and built since the fire. It is, I
believe, quite a summer resort, as Tuolumne is the terminus of the
Sierra Railway, and one can go by way of Stockton direct to Oakland and
San Francisco.
Returning to Angel's the next day, I lingered again at Tuttletown. There
is a strange attraction about the place - it would hold you apart from
its associations, The old hotel, fast going to decay, surrounded by
splendid trees whose shade is so dense as to be impenetrable to the
noon-day sun, is a study for an artist. And as I gazed in a sort of
day-dream at the ruins of what once was one of the liveliest camps in
the Sierras - with four faro tables running day and night - the pines
seemed to whisper a sigh of regret over its departed glories. Jackass
Hill is fairly honeycombed with prospect holes, shafts and tunnels. I
was surprised to see that even now there is a certain amount of prospect
work going forward, for I noticed several shafts with windlasses to
which ropes were attached; and, in fact, was told that the old camp
showed signs of a new lease of life.
Musing on Tuttletown and its environment later on got me into serious
difficulty. Having crossed the Stanislaus River and cleared the canon, I
abandoned the main road for an alleged "cut-off." This I was following
with the utmost confidence, when, to my surprise, it came to an abrupt
end at the foot of a steep hill. In the ravine below was a house, and
there fortunately I found a man of whom I inquired if I was in "Carson
Flat." "Carson Flat? Well, I should say not! You're 'way off!" "How
much?" I asked feebly. "Oh, several miles." This in a tone that implied
that though I was in a bad fix, it might possibly be worse. However,
with the invariable kindness of these people, he put me on a trail
which, winding up to the summit of a ridge, struck down into Carson Flat
and joined the main road. And there I registered a vow: "The hard
highway for me!" As a consequence of this deviation, I materially
lengthened the distance to Angel's. It is thirty miles from Tuolumne by
the road, to which, by taking the "cut-off," I probably added another
three!
It is surprising how these towns grow upon one. Already the Angel's
Hotel seemed like home to me and after an excellent dinner, I joined the
loungers on the side-walk and became one of a row, seated on chairs
tilted at various angles against the wall of the hotel. And there I
dozed, watching the passing show between dreams; for in the evening when
the electric lights are on, there is a sort of parade of the youth and
beauty of the town, up and down the winding street.
On account of the great heat that even the dry purity of the Sierra
atmosphere could not altogether mitigate, I decided the next day to be
content with reaching San Andreas, the county seat of Calaveras County,
fifteen miles north of Angel's.
Apart from its name, there is something about San Andreas that suggests
Mexico, or one's idea of pastoral California in the early days of the
American occupation. The streets are narrow and unpaved and during the
midday heat are almost deserted. Business of some sort there must be,
for the little town, though somnolent, is evidently holding its own; but
there seems to be infinite time in which to accomplish whatever the
necessities of life demand. And I may state here parenthetically, that
perhaps the most impressive feature of all the old California mining
towns is their suggestion of calm repose. Each little community seems
sufficient unto itself and entirely satisfied with things as they are.
Not even in the Old World will you find places where the current of life
more placidly flows.
On the main street - and the principal street of all these towns is
"Main Street" - I had the good fortune to be introduced to Judge Ira H.
Reed, who came to Calaveras County in 1854, and has lived there ever
since. He told me that Judge Gottschalk, who died a few years ago at an
advanced age, was authority for the statement that Mark Twain got his
"Jumping Frog" story from the then proprietor of the Metropolitan Hotel,
San Andreas, who asserted that the incident actually occurred in his
bar-room. Twain, it is true, places the scene in a bar-room at Angel's,
but that is doubtless the author's license. Bret Harte calls Tuttletown,
"Tuttleville," and there never was a "Wingdam" stage.
That evening as I lay awake in my bedroom at the Metropolitan Hotel,
wondering by what person of note it had been occupied in the "good old
days," my attention was attracted to the musical tinkle of a cow-bell.
Looking out of the window, I beheld the strange spectacle of a cow
walking sedately down the middle of the street. No one was driving her,
no one paid her any attention beyond a casual glance, as she passed. The
cow, in fact, had simply come home, after a day in the open country; and
it became plain to me that this was a nightly occurrence and therefore
caused no comment. Unmolested, she passed the hotel and on down the
street to the foot of the hill, where she evidently spent the night; for
the tinkle of the bell became permanent and blended with and became a
part of the subtle, mysterious sounds that constitute Nature's sleeping
breath.
This little incident in the county seat of Calaveras County impressed me
as an epitome of the changes wrought by time, since the days when in
song and story Bret Harte made the name "Calaveras" a synonym for
romance wherever the English language is spoken.
From San Andreas my objective point was Placerville, distant about
forty-five miles. The heat still being excessive, I made the town by
easy stages, arriving at noon on the third day. Mokelumne Hill, ten
miles beyond San Andreas, also lends its name to the little town which
clusters around its apex and is at the head of Chili Gulch, a once
famous bonanza for the placer miners. For miles the road winds up the
gulch, which is almost devoid of timber, amid piled-up rocks and debris,
bleached and blistered by the sun's fierce rays; the gulch itself being
literally stripped to "bedrock." I had already witnessed many evidences
of man's eager pursuit of the precious metal, but nothing that so
conveyed the idea of the feverish, persistent energy with which those
adventurers in the new El Dorado had struggled day and night with
Nature's obstacles, spurred on by the auri sacra fames.
A little incident served to relieve the monotony of the climb up Chili
Gulch. A miner, who might have sat for a study of "Tennessee's Partner,"
came down the hillside with a pan of "dirt," which he carefully washed
in a muddy pool in the bed of the gulch. He showed me the result, a few
"colors" and sulphurets. He said it would "go about five dollars to the
ton," and seemed well satisfied with the result. I shall always hold him
in grateful memory, for he took me to an old tunnel, and disappearing
for a few moments, returned with a large dipper of ice-cold water. Not
the Children of Israel, when Aaron smote the rock in the desert and
produced a living stream, could have lapped that water with keener
enjoyment.
The terrific heat in Chili Gulch made the shade from the trees which
surround Mekolumne Hotel doubly grateful. Mokelumne Hill is, in fact, a
mountain, and commands a view of rare beauty. At its base winds the
wooded canon of the Mokelumne River, on the farther side of which rises
the Jackson Butte, an isolated peak with an elevation of over three
thousand feet, while in the background loom the omnipresent peaks of the
far Sierra.
The Mokelumne Hotel is regarded as modern, dating back merely to 1868,
at which time the original building was destroyed by fire. The present
structure of solid blocks of stone, should resist the elements for
centuries to come. I was surprised at the excellent accommodations of
this hotel. In what seemed such an out-of-the-way and inaccessible
locality, I was served with one of the best meals on the whole journey,
including claret with crushed ice in a champagne glass! What that meant
to a tramp who had struggled for miles through quartz rock and
impalpable dust, up a heavy grade, without shade and the thermometer
well past the hundred mark, only a tramp can appreciate. I fell in love
with Mokelumne Hill and, after due consultation of my map, resolved to
pass the night in this picturesque and delightful spot. I was also
influenced by its associations, as it figures prominently in Bret
Harte's stories.
Of the four famous rivers - the Stanislaus, Mokelumne, American and
Cosumnes - which I crossed on this trip, the Mokelumne appealed to me
the most. Whatever the meaning of the Indian name, one may rest assured
it stands for some form of beauty. Jackson, the county seat of Amador
County, is but six miles from Mokelumne Hill and a town of considerable
importance, being the terminus of a branch line of the Southern Pacific
Railway. It is situated in an open country where the hills are at some
distance, and presents a certain up-to-date appearance. About a mile
from Jackson the Kennedy mine, running a hundred stamps, is one of the
greatest gold producers in the State.
Sutter Creek, erroneously supposed by many to be the spot where gold was
first discovered in California, four miles north of Jackson, is
picturesque and rendered attractive by reason of the vivid green of the
lawns surrounding the little cottages on its outskirts. This town, too,
has a flourishing look, accounted for by the operation of the South
Eureka and Central Eureka mines. A gentleman whom I met on the street
imparted this information, and asked me if I remembered Mark Twain's
definition of a gold mine. I had to confess I did not. "Well," said he,
"Mark Twain defined a gold mine as 'a hole in the ground at one end, and
a d - d fool at the other!'" The appreciative twinkle in his eye
suggested the possibility that this definition met with his approval.
Amador, two miles beyond Sutter Creek, did not appeal to me.
"Stagnation" would probably come nearer than any other term to conveying
to the mind of a person unfamiliar with Amador its present condition.
One becomes acutely sensitive to the "atmosphere" of these places, after
a few days upon the road, for each has a distinctive individuality. in
spite of the fact that it was mid-day in midsummer, gloom seemed to
pervade the streets and to be characteristic of its inhabitants. With
the exception of an attempt to get into telephonic communication with a
friend at Placerville, I lost not a moment in the town.
On reaching Drytown, three miles north of Amador, I noted the
thermometer stood at 110 degrees in the shade on the watered porch of
the hotel, and deciding there was a certain risk attendant on walking in
such heat, determined to make the best of what was anything but a
pleasant situation, and go no farther. Drytown, in the modern
application of the first syllable, is a misnomer, the "town" consisting
chiefly of the hotel with accompanying bar, and a saloon across the way!
Drytown was in existence as early as 1849, and was visited in October of
that year by Bayard Taylor. He says: "I found a population of from two
to three hundred, established for the winter. The village was laid out
with some regularity and had taverns, stores, butchers' shops and monte
tables." One cannot but smile at the idea of "monte tables" in
connection with the Drytown of to-day; pitiful as is the reflection that
men had braved the hardships of the desert and toiled to the waist in
water for gold, only to throw it recklessly in the laps of professional
gamblers.
The Exchange Hotel, a wooden building dating back to 1858, stands on the
site of the original hotel, built in 1851 and burned in 1857. Upon the
front porch is a well furnishing cold, pure water. I found this to be
the most acceptable feature of several of the old hostelries. The well
and the swinging sign over the entrance suggested the wayside inn of
rural England; more especially as the surrounding country carries out
the idea, being gently undulating and well timbered.
The following evening I put up at Nashville, on the North Fork of the
Cosumnes River and well over the borders of El Dorado county, passing
Plymouth en route. Plymouth, on the map, appeared to be a place of some
importance, but a closer inspection proved that - in spite of its breezy
name - it would take the spirits of a Mark Tapley to withstand its
discouraging surroundings. Plymouth is "living in hopes," an English
syndicate having an option on certain mining properties in the vicinity;
but Nashville is frankly "out of business."
At Nashville, in fact, I had some difficulty in securing "bed and
lodging." There appeared to be only three families in this once
flourishing camp. Strange as it may seem, money appears to be no object
to people in these sequestered places. You have "to make good," and in
this instance it required not a little tact and diplomacy.
I arrived at Placerville the following day. Due to taking a road not
shown on my map, I went several miles astray and for some few hours was
immersed in wild, chaparral-covered mountains, with evidences on all
hands of deserted mines; finally crossing a divide at an elevation of
two thousand feet and descending into the valley where slumbers the
little town of El Dorado, formerly bearing the less attractive
designation "Mud Springs." This title, though lacking in euphony, was
more in keeping with actual conditions, since the valley is noted for
its springs, and Diamond Springs, a mile or two north, is quite a summer
resort. Nor is there any indication of the precious metal anywhere in
the immediate vicinity.
In Placerville - known as "Hangtown" in the Bret Harte days - I
registered at the Cary House, which once had the honor of entertaining
no less a personage than Horace Greeley. It was here he terminated his
celebrated stage ride with Hank Monk. I found that my friend Harold
Edward Smith had gone to Coloma, eight miles on the road to Auburn, and
had left a note saying he would wait for me there the following morning.
Chapter IV
J. H. Bradley and the Cary House. Ruins of Coloma. James W. Marshall and
His Pathetic End.
More than any other town, Placerville gave a suggestion of the olden
times. "John Oakhurst" and "Jack Hamlin" would still be in their
element, as witness the following scene:
In the card room back of the bar, in a certain hotel, a "little game"
was in progress. A big, blond giant, with curly hair and clean-cut
features - indeed he could have posed as a model for Praxiteles - arose
nonchalantly from the table as I entered, and swept the stakes into a
capacious pocket. An angry murmur of disapproval came from the sitters,
and one man muttered something about "quitting the game a winner." With
a hand on each hip, the giant swept the disgruntled upturned faces with
a comprehensive glance, and drawled: "I'll admit there's something wrong
in mine, gentlemen, or I wouldn't be here, see?" He waited a moment and
amid silence passed slowly through the barroom to the sidewalk, seated
himself, stretched his long legs and placidly gazed across the street.
In the morning I had a long talk with Mr. J. H. Bradley, perhaps the
best known man in El Dorado County. Though in his eighty-fourth year,
his keen brown eyes still retain the fire and light of youth. The
vitality of these old pioneers is something marvelous. Mr. Bradley was
born in Kentucky, but, as a boy, moved to Hannibal, Missouri, where he
played marbles with Mark Twain, or Clemens, as he prefers to call him.
In '49, he came across the plains to California. He was on the most
friendly terms with Twain and said he assisted him to learn piloting on
the Mississippi; and when Twain came to California, helped him to get a
position as compositor with U. E. Hicks, who founded the Sacramento
Union. He also knew Horace Greeley intimately, and has a portfolio that
once was his property. Five years after Greeley's arrival in
Placerville, which was in 1859, Mr. Bradley married Caroline Hicks, who
with Phoebe and Rose Carey had acted as secretary to Mr. Greeley. Mr.
Bradley takes no stock in the "keep your seat, Horace!" story. He
considers it a fabrication. In his opinion, the romancers - Bret Harte,
Mark Twain, et al. - have done California more harm than good. He also
has a thinly disguised contempt for "newspaper fellows and magazine
writers." Nor does he believe in the "Mother Lode" - that is, in its
continuity - in spite of the geologists. He prefers to speak of the
"mineral zone." In fine, Mr. Bradley is a man of definite and pronounced
opinions on any subject you may broach. For that reason, his views,
whether you agree with them or not, are always of interest.
Hanging in the office of the Cary House is a clever cartoon, by William
Cooper, of Portland, Oregon, entitled "A mining convention in
Placerville;" in which Mr. Bradley is depicted in earnest conversation
with a second Mr. Bradley, a third and evidently remonstrant Mr. Bradley
intervening, while a fourth and fifth Mr. Bradley, decidedly bored, are
hurriedly departing.
Indeed, one glance at Mr. Bradley is enough to convince you that he is a
man of unusual force of character. No one introduced me to him. I was
merely informed at the Cary House that he was the person to whom I
should apply for information concerning the old times. I accordingly
started out to look for him and had not proceeded fifty yards when a
man, approaching at a distance, arrested my attention. As he drew
nearer, I felt positive there could be only one such personage in
Placerville, and when he was opposite me, I stopped and said, "How are
you, Mr. Bradley?" "That's my name, sir; what do you want?" he replied.
They take life easily in the old mining towns. No wonder the spectacle
of a man with a pack on his back caused comment, in that heat, tramping
two or three hundred miles for pleasure! Beyond the trivial necessities
that bare existence makes imperative, I was not conscious of seeing
anyone do anything on the whole trip. Old miners not unnaturally took me
for a prospector, and I think I never quite succeeded in convincing them
to the contrary.
In Placerville as in Angel's Camp, the evening promenade seems the most
important event of the day. Young men and maidens pass and repass in an
apparently endless chain. The same faces recur so frequently that one
begins to take an interest in the little comedy and speculate on the
rival attractions of blonde and brunette, and wonder which of the young
bloods is the local Beau Brummel. The audience - so to speak - sit on,
chairs backed against the walls of the hotels and stores, while many
prefer the street itself, and with feet on curb or other coign of
vantage, tilt their chairs at most alarming angles. A sort of animated
lovers' lane is thus formed, through which the promenaders have to run
the gauntlet, and are subjected to a certain amount of criticism.
Everyone knows everyone. Good natured badinage plays like wild-fire, up
and down and across the street. Later on, the tinkle of mandolin and
guitar is heard far into the night watches.
Having determined to reach Auburn - thirty miles away - the next day, I
made an early start. Coloma lies at the bottom of the great canon of the
South Fork of the American River. Hastening down the grade, in a bend of
the road I almost ran into my friend. It seemed a strange meeting this,
in the heart of the old mining country, and I think we both gave a
perceptible start.
It was at Coloma that gold was first discovered in California, by James
W. Marshall, January 19, 1848. My companion had been so fortunate on the
previous day as to meet Mr. W. H. Hooper, who arrived in Coloma August
8, 1850, and who has lived there practically ever since. Though
eighty-three, he is still strong and vigorous. From him my friend
elicited some very interesting information in regard to Marshall
especially, the substance of which I append from his notes. Mr. Hooper
had known Marshall for many years, and his reminiscences of the
discoverer have a touch of pathos bordering on the tragic.
Marshall, a trapper by trade and frontiersman by inclination,
accompanied General Sutter to California, assisted in the building of
Sutter Fort and, on account of his mechanical ability, was sent to
Coloma to superintend the erection of a sawmill. It was in the mill-race
that he picked up the nugget which made the name "California" the magnet
for the world's adventurers. Unaware of the nature of his "find," he
took it to Sacramento, where it was declared to be gold. He was implored
by General Sutter to keep the mill operatives in ignorance of his
discovery, for fear they should desert their work. But how could such a
secret be kept, especially by a man of generous and impulsive instincts?
At any rate the news leaked out and the stampede followed.
From Mr. Hooper's account, Marshall was a very human character. Late in
life the state legislature granted him a pension of two hundred dollars
per month. This sum being far in excess of his actual needs, it followed
as a matter of course that his cronies assisted him in disposing of it.
In fact, "Marshall's pension day" became a local attraction, and the
Coloma saloon - still in existence - the rendezvous. These reunions were
varied by glorious excursions to Sacramento, his friends in the
legislature imploring him to keep away. After two years the pension was
cut down to one hundred dollars per mouth and finally was discontinued
in toto - a shabby and most undignified procedure. Opposite the saloon,
at some little distance, is a conical hill. For many years Marshall,
seated on the steps of the porch, had gazed dreamily at its summit.
Shortly before his death, addressing a remnant of the "old guard," he
exclaimed: "Boys, when I go, I want you to plant me on the top of that
hill." And "planted" he was, with a ten-thousand-dollar monument on top
of him!
The poor old fellow died in poverty at Kelsey, near Coloma, August 10,
1885, at the age of seventy-five. It is a sad reflection that a tithe of
the money spent on the monument would have comforted him in his latter
days; for the blow to his pride by the withdrawal of his pension, still
more than the actual lack of funds, hastened the end.
Mr. Hooper intimated that the population of Coloma diminished
perceptibly after the termination of Marshall's pension. To common with
the majority of the old miners, be saved nothing and never profited to
any extent by the discovery that will keep his memory alive for
centuries to come.
Coloma in its palmy days had a population variously estimated at from
five to ten thousand souls, with the usual accompaniment of saloons,
dance halls and faro banks. There was a vigorous expulsion of gamblers
in the early fifties and an incident occurred which quite possibly
supplied the inspiration for Bret Harte's "Outcasts of Poker Flat." A
notorious gambler and desperado, and his accomplice, demurred. Whereupon
the irate miners placed them on a burro, and with vigorous threats
punctuated by a salvo of revolver shots fired over their heads, drove
them out of camp. They disappeared over the hill upon which the monument
now stands, and were seen no more.