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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

T >> Thomas Stevens >> Around the World on a Bicycle V1



FROM SAN FRANCISCO TO TEHERAN.






CHAPTER I.





OVER THE SIERRAS NEVADAS.

The beauties of nature are scattered with a more lavish hand across the
country lying between the summit of the Sierra Nevada Mountains and the
shores where the surf romps and rolls over the auriferous sands of the
Pacific, in Golden Gate Park, than in a journey of the same length in
any other part of the world. Such, at least, is the verdict of many whose
fortune it has been to traverse that favored stretch of country. Nothing
but the limited power of man's eyes prevents him from standing on the
top of the mountains and surveying, at a glance, the whole glorious
panorama that stretches away for more than two hundred miles to the west,
terminating in the gleaming waters of the Pacific Ocean. Could he do
this, he would behold, for the first seventy-five or eighty miles, a
vast, billowy sea of foot-hills, clothed with forests of sombre pine and
bright, evergreen oaks; and, lower down, dense patches of white-blossomed
chaparral, looking in the enchanted distance like irregular banks of
snow. Then the world-renowned valley of the Sacramento River, with its
level plains of dark, rich soil, its matchless fields of ripening grain,
traversed here and there by streams that, emerging from the shadowy
depths of the foot-hills, wind their way, like gleaming threads of silver,
across the fertile plain and join the Sacramento, which receives them,
one and all, in her matronly bosom and hurries with them øn to the sea.

Towns and villages, with white church-spires, irregularly sprinkled over
hill and vale, although sown like seeds from the giant hand of a mighty
husbandman, would be seen nestling snugly amid groves of waving shade
and semi-tropical fruit trees. Beyond all this the lower coast-range,
where, toward San Francisco, Mount Diablo and Mount Tamalpais - grim
sentinels of the Golden Gate - rear their shaggy heads skyward, and seem
to look down with a patronizing air upon the less pretentious hills that
border the coast and reflect their shadows in the blue water of San
Francisco Bay. Upon the sloping sides of these hills sweet, nutritious
grasses grow, upon which peacefully graze the cows that supply San
Francisco with milk and butter.

Various attempts have been made from time to time, by ambitious cyclers,
to wheel across America from ocean to ocean; but - "Around the World!"

"The impracticable scheme of a visionary," was the most charitable
verdict one could reasonably have expected.

The first essential element of success, however, is to have sufficient
confidence in one's self to brave the criticisms - to say nothing of the
witticisms - of a sceptical public. So eight o'clock on the morning of
April 22, 1884, finds me and my fifty-inch machine on the deck of the
Alameda, one of the splendid ferry-boats plying between San Francisco
and Oakland, and a ride of four miles over the sparkling waters of the
bay lands us, twenty-eight minutes later, on the Oakland pier, that juts
far enough out to allow the big ferries to enter the slip in deep water.
On the beauties of San Francisco Bay it is, perhaps, needless to dwell,
as everybody has heard or read of this magnificent sheet of water, its
surface flecked with snowy sails, and surrounded by a beautiful framework
of evergreen hills; its only outlet to the ocean the famous Golden Gate - a
narrow channel through which come and go the ships of all nations.

With the hearty well-wishing of a small group of Oakland and 'Frisco
cyclers who have come, out of curiosity, to see the start, I mount and
ride away to the east, down San Pablo Avenue, toward the village of the
same Spanish name, some sixteen miles distant. The first seven miles are
a sort of half-macadamized road, and I bowl briskly along.

The past winter has been the rainiest since 1857, and the continuous
pelting rains had not beaten down upon the last half of this imperfect
macadam in vain; for it has left it a surface of wave-like undulations,
from out of which the frequent bowlder protrudes its unwelcome head, as
if ambitiously striving to soar above its lowly surroundings. But this
one don't mind, and I am perfectly willing to put up with the bowlders
for the sake of the undulations. The sensation of riding a small boat
over "the gently-heaving waves of the murmuring sea" is, I think, one
of the pleasures of life; and the next thing to it is riding a bicycle
over the last three miles of the San Pablo Avenue macadam as I found it
on that April morning.

The wave-like macadam abruptly terminates, and I find myself on a common
dirt road. It is a fair road, however, and I have plenty of time to look
about and admire whatever bits of scenery happen to come in view. There
are few spots in the "Golden State" from which views of more or less
beauty are not to be obtained; and ere I am a baker's dozen of miles
from Oakland pier I find myself within an ace of taking an undesirable
header into a ditch of water by the road-side, while looking upon a scene
that for the moment completely wins me from my immediate surroundings.
There is nothing particularly grand or imposing in the outlook here; but
the late rains have clothed the whole smiling face of nature with a
bright, refreshing green, that fails not to awaken a thrill of pleasure
in the breast of one fresh from the verdureless streets of a large sea-
port city. Broad fields of pale-green, thrifty-looking young wheat, and
darker-hued meads, stretch away on either side of the road; and away
beyond to the left, through an opening in the hills, can be seen, as
through a window, the placid waters of the bay, over whose glittering,
sunlit surface white-winged, aristocratic yachts and the plebeian smacks
of Greek and Italian fishermen swiftly glide, and fairly vie with each
other in giving the finishing touches to a picture.

So far, the road continues level and fairly good; and, notwithstanding
the seductive pleasures of the ride over the bounding billows of the
gently heaving macadam, the dalliance with the scenery, and the all too
frequent dismounts in deference to the objections of phantom-eyed
roadsters, I pulled up at San Pablo at ten o'clock, having covered the
sixteen miles in one hour and thirty-two minutes; though, of course,
there is nothing speedy about this - to which desirable qualification,
indeed, I lay no claim.

Soon after leaving San Pablo the country gets somewhat "choppy," and
the road a succession of short-hills, at the bottom of which modest-looking
mud-holes patiently await an opportunity to make one's acquaintance, or
scraggy-looking, latitudinous washouts are awaiting their chance to
commit a murder, or to make the unwary cycler who should venture to "coast,"
think he had wheeled over the tail of an earthquake. One never
minds a hilly road where one can reach the bottom with an impetus that
sends him spinning half-way up the next; but where mud-holes or washouts
resolutely "hold the fort" in every depression, it is different, and
the progress of the cycler is necessarily slow. I have set upon reaching
Suisun, a point fifty miles along the Central Pacific Railway, to-night;
but the roads after leaving San Pablo are anything but good, and the day
is warm, so six P.M. finds me trudging along an unridable piece of road
through the low tuile swamps that border Suisun Bay. "Tuile" is the
name given to a species of tall rank grass, or rather rush, that grows
to the height of eight or ten feet, and so thick in places that it is
difficult to pass through, in the low, swampy grounds in this part of
California. These tuile swamps are traversed by a net-work of small,
sluggish streams and sloughs, that fairly swarm with wild ducks and
geese, and justly entitle them to their local title of "the duck-hunters'
paradise." Ere I am through this swamp, the shades of night gather
ominously around and settle down like a pall over the half-flooded flats;
the road is full of mud-holes and pools of water, through which it is
difficult to navigate, and I am in something of a quandary. I am sweeping
along at the irresistible velocity of a mile an hour, and wondering how
far it is to the other end of the swampy road, when thrice welcome succor
appears from a strange and altogether unexpected source. I had noticed
a small fire, twinkling through the darkness away off in the swamp; and
now the wind rises and the flames of the small fire spread to the thick
patches of dead tuile. In a short time the whole country, including my
road, is lit up by the fierce glare of the blaze; so that I am enabled
to proceed with little trouble. These tuiles often catch on fire in the
fall and early winter, when everything is comparatively dry, and fairly
rival the prairie fires of the Western plains in the fierceness of the
flames.

The next morning I start off in a drizzling rain, and, after going sixteen
miles, I have to remain for the day at Elmira. Here, among other items
of interest, I learn that twenty miles farther ahead the Sacramento River
is flooding the country, and the only way I can hope to get through is
to take to the Central Pacific track and cross over the six miles of
open trestle-work that spans the Sacramento River and its broad bottom-lands,
that are subject to the annual spring overflow. From Elmira my way leads
through a fruit and farming country that is called second to none in the
world. Magnificent farms line the road; at short intervals appear large
well-kept vineyards, in which gangs of Chinese coolies are hoeing and
pulling weeds, and otherwise keeping trim. A profusion of peach, pear,
and almond orchards enlivens the landscape with a wealth of pink and
white blossoms, and fills the balmy spring air with a subtle, sensuous
perfume that savors of a tropical clime.

Already I realize that there is going to be as much "foot-riding" as
anything for the first part of my journey; so, while halting for dinner
at the village of Davisville, I deliver my rather slight shoes over to
the tender mercies of an Irish cobbler of the old school, with carte
blanche instructions to fit them out for hard service. While diligently
hammering away at the shoes, the old cobbler grows communicative, and
in almost unintelligible brogue tells a complicated tale of Irish life,
out of which I can make neither head, tail, nor tale; though nodding and
assenting to it all, to the great satisfaction of the loquacious manipulator
of the last, who in an hour hands over the shoes with the proud assertion,
"They'll last yez, be jabbers, to Omaha."

Reaching the overflowed country, I have to take to the trestle-work and
begin the tedious process of trundling along that aggravating roadway,
where, to the music of rushing waters, I have to step from tie to tie,
and bump, bump, bump, my machine along for six weary miles. The Sacramento
River is the outlet for the tremendous volumes of water caused every
spring by the melting snows on the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and these
long stretches of open trestle have been found necessary to allow the
water to pass beneath. Nothing but trains are expected to cross this
trestle-work, and of course no provision is made for pedestrians. The
engineer of an approaching train sets his locomotive to tooting for all
she is worth as he sees a "strayed or stolen" cycler, slowly bumping
along ahead of his train. But he has no need to slow up, for occasional
cross-beams stick out far enough to admit of standing out of reach, and
when he comes up alongside, he and the fireman look out of the window
of the cab and see me squatting on the end of one of these handy beams,
and letting the bicycle hang over.

That night I stay in Sacramento, the beautiful capital of the Golden
State, whose well-shaded streets and blooming, almost tropical gardens
combine to form a city of quiet, dignified beauty, of which Californians
feel justly proud. Three and a half miles east of Sacramento, the high
trestle bridge spanning the main stream of the American River has to be
crossed, and from this bridge is obtained a remarkably fine view of the
snow-capped Sierras, the great barrier that separates the fertile valleys
and glorious climate of California, from the bleak and barren sage-brush
plains, rugged mountains, and forbidding wastes of sand and alkali, that,
from the summit of the Sierras, stretch away to the eastward for over a
thousand miles. The view from the American River bridge is grand and
imposing, encompassing the whole foot-hill country, which rolls in broken,
irregular billows of forest-crowned hill and charming vale, upward and
onward to the east, gradually getting more rugged, rocky, and immense,
the hills changing to mountains, the vales to ca¤ons, until they terminate
in bald, hoary peaks whose white rugged pinnacles seem to penetrate the
sky, and stand out in ghostly, shadowy outline against the azure depths
of space beyond.

After crossing the American River the character of the country changes,
and I enjoy a ten-mile ride over a fair road, through one of those
splendid sheep-ranches that are only found in California, and which have
long challenged the admiration of the world. Sixty thousand acres, I
am informed, is the extent of this pasture, all within one fence. The
soft, velvety greensward is half-shaded by the wide-spreading branches
of evergreen oaks that singly and in small groups are scattered at
irregular intervals from one end of the pasture to the other, giving it
the appearance of one of the old ancestral parks of England. As I bowl
pleasantly along I involuntarily look about me, half expecting to see
some grand, stately old mansion peeping from among some one of the
splendid oak-groves; and when a jack-rabbit hops out and halts at twenty
paces from my road, I half hesitate to fire at him, lest the noise of
the report should bring out the vigilant and lynx-eyed game-keeper, and
get me "summoned" for poaching. I remember the pleasant ten-mile ride
through this park-like pasture as one of the brightest spots of the whole
journey across America. But "every rose conceals a thorn," and pleasant
paths often load astray; when I emerge from the pasture I find myself
several miles off the right road and have to make my unhappy way across
lots, through numberless gates and small ranches, to the road again.

There seems to be quite a sprinkling of Spanish or Mexican rancheros
through here, and after partaking of the welcome noon-tide hospitality
of one of the ranches, I find myself, before I realize it, illustrating
the bicycle and its uses, to a group of sombrero-decked rancheros and
darked-eyed se¤oritas, by riding the machine round and round on their
own ranch-lawn. It is a novel position, to say the least; and often
afterward, wending my solitary way across some dreary Nevada desert,
with no company but my own uncanny shadow, sharply outlined on the white
alkali by the glaring rays of the sun, my untrammelled thoughts would
wander back to this scene, and I would grow "hot and cold by turns," in
my uncertainty as to whether the bewitching smiles of the se¤oritas were
smiles of admiration, or whether they were simply "grinning" at the
figure I cut. While not conscious of having cut a sorrier figure than
usual on that occasion, somehow I cannot rid myself of an unhappy, ban-
owing suspicion, that the latter comes nearer the truth than the former.

The ground is gradually getting more broken; huge rocks intrude themselves
upon the landscape. At the town of Rocklin we are supposed to enter the
foot-hill country proper. Much of the road in these lower foot-hills is
excellent, being of a hard, stony character, and proof against the winter
rains. Everybody who writes anything about the Golden State is expected
to say something complimentary - or otherwise, as his experience may seem
to dictate - about the "glorious climate of California;" or else render
an account of himself for the slight, should he ever return, which he
is very liable to do. For, no matter what he may say about it, the "glorious climate"
generally manages to make one, ever after, somewhat
dissatisfied with the extremes of heat and cold met with in less genial
regions. This fact of having to pay my measure of tribute to the climate
forces itself on my notice prominently here at Rocklin, because, in-
directly, the "climate" was instrumental in bringing about a slight
accident, which, in turn, brought about the - to me - serious calamity of
sending me to bed without any supper. Rocklin is celebrated - and by
certain bad people, ridiculed - all over this part of the foot-hills for
the superabundance of its juvenile population. If one makes any inquisitive
remarks about this fact, the Rocklinite addressed will either blush or
grin, according to his temperament, and say, "It's the glorious climate."
A bicycle is a decided novelty up here, and, of course, the multitudinous
youth turn out in droves to see it. The bewildering swarms of these small
mountaineers distract my attention and cause me to take a header that
temporarily disables the machine. The result is, that, in order to reach
the village where I wish to stay over night, I have to "foot it" over
four miles of the best road I have found since leaving San Pablo, and
lose my supper into the bargain, by procrastinating at the village smithy,
so as to have my machine in trim, ready for an early start next morning.
If the "glorious climate of California " is responsible for the exceedingly
hopeful prospects of Rocklin's future census reports, and the said lively
outlook, materialized, is responsible for my mishap, then plainly the
said "G. C. of C." is the responsible element in the case. I hope this
compliment to the climate will strike the Californians as about the
correct thing; but, if it should happen to work the other way, I beg of
them at once to pour out the vials of their wrath on the heads of the
'Frisco Bicycle Club, in order that their fury may be spent ere I again
set foot on their auriferous soil.

"What'll you do when you hit the snow?" is now a frequent question asked
by the people hereabouts, who seem to be more conversant with affairs
pertaining to the mountains than they are of what is going on in the
valleys below. This remark, of course, has reference to the deep snow
that, toward the summits of the mountains, covers the ground to the depth
of ten feet on the level, and from that to almost any depth where it has
drifted and accumulated. I have not started out on this greatest of all
bicycle tours without looking into these difficulties, and I remind them
that the long snow-sheds of the Central Pacific Railway make it possible
for one to cross over, no matter how deep the snow may lie on the ground
outside. Some speak cheerfully of the prospects for getting over, but
many shake their heads ominously and say, "You'll never be able to make
it through."

Rougher and more hilly become the roads as we gradually penetrate farther
and farther into the foot-hills. We are now in far-famed Placer County,
and the evidences of the hardy gold diggers' work in pioneer days are
all about us. In every gulch and ravine are to be seen broken and decaying
sluice-boxes. Bare, whitish-looking patches of washed-out gravel show
where a "claim " has been worked over and abandoned. In every direction
are old water-ditches, heaps of gravel, and abandoned shafts - all telling,
in language more eloquent than word or pen, of the palmy days of '49,
and succeeding years; when, in these deep gulches, and on these yellow
hills, thousands of bronzed, red-shirted miners dug and delved, and
"rocked the cradle" for the precious yellow dust and nuggets. But all
is now changed, and where were hundreds before, now only a few "old
timers " roam the foot-hills, prospecting, and working over the old
claims; but "dust," "nuggets," and "pockets " still form the burden of
conversation in the village barroom or the cross-roads saloon. Now and
then a "strike " is made by some lucky - or perhaps it turns out, unlucky -
prospector. This for a few days kindles anew the slumbering spark of
"gold fever" that lingers in the veins of the people here, ever ready
to kindle into a flame at every bit of exciting news, in the way of a
lucky "find" near home, or new gold-fields in some distant land. These
occasions never fail to have their legitimate effect upon the business
of the bar where the "old-timers" congregate to learn the news; and,
between drinks, yarns of the good old days of '49 and '50, of "streaks
of luck," of "big nuggets," and "wild times," are spun over and over
again. Although the palmy days of the "diggin's" are no more, yet the
finder of a "pocket" these days seems not a whit wiser than in the days
when "pockets" more frequently rewarded the patient prospector than
they do now; and at Newcastle - a station near the old-time mining camps
of Ophir and Gold Hill - I hear of a man who lately struck a "pocket," out
of which he dug forty thousand dollars; and forthwith proceeded to imitate
his reckless predecessors by going down to 'Frisco and entering upon a
career of protracted sprees and debauchery that cut short his earthly
career in less than six months, and wafted his riotous spirit to where
there are no more forty thousand dollar pockets, and no more 'Friscos
in which to squander it. In this instance the "find" was clearly an
unlucky one. Not quite so bad was the case of two others who, but a few
days before my arrival, took out twelve hundred dollars; they simply,
in the language of the gold fields "turned themselves loose," "made
things hum," and "whooped 'em up" around the bar-room of their village
for exactly three days; when, "dead broke," they took to the gulches
again, to search for more. "Yer oughter hev happened through here with
that instrumint of yourn about that time, young fellow; yer might hev
kept as full as a tick till they war busted," remarked a slouchy-looking
old fellow whose purple-tinted nose plainly indicated that he had devoted
a good part of his existence to the business of getting himself "full
as a tick" every time he ran across the chance.

Quite a different picture is presented by an industrious old Mexican,
whom I happen to see away down in the bottom of a deep ravine, along
which swiftly hurries a tiny stream. He is diligently shovelling dirt
into a rude sluice-box which he has constructed in the bed of the stream
at a point where the water rushes swiftly down a declivity. Setting my
bicycle up against a rock, I clamber down the steep bank to investigate.
In tones that savor of anything but satisfaction with the result of his
labor, he informs me that he has to work "most infernal hard" to pan
out two dollars' worth of "dust" a day. "I have had to work over all
that pile of gravel you see yonder to clean up seventeen dollars' worth
of dust," further volunteered the old "greaser," as I picked up a spare
shovel and helped him remove a couple of bowlders that he was trying to
roll out of his war. I condole with him at the low grade of the gravel
he is working, hope he may "strike it rich " one of these days, and
take my departure.

Up here I find it preferable to keep the railway track, alongside of
which there are occasionally ridable side-paths; while on the wagon roads
little or no riding can be done on account of the hills, and the sticky
nature of the red, clayey soil. From the railway track near Newcastle
is obtained a magnificent view of the lower country, traversed during
the last three days, with the Sacramento River winding its way through
its broad valley to the sea. Deep cuts and high embankments follow each
other in succession, as the road-bed is now broken through a hill, now
carried across a deep gulch, and anon winds around the next hill and
over another ravine. Before reaching Auburn I pass through "Bloomer
Cut," where perpendicular walls of bowlders loom up on both sides of the
track looking as if the slightest touch or jar would unloose them and
send them bounding and crashing on the top of the passing train as it
glides along, or drop down on the stray cycler who might venture through.
On the way past Auburn, and on up to Clipper Gap, the dry, yellow dirt
under the overhanging rocks, and in the crevices, is so suggestive of "
dust," that I take a small prospecting glass, which I have in my tool-bag,
and do a little prospecting; without, however, finding sufficient "color"
to induce me to abandon my journey and go to digging.

Before reaching Clipper Gap it begins to rain; while I am taking dinner
at that place it quits raining and begins to come down by buckets full,
so that I have to lie over for the remainder of the day. The hills around
Clipper Gap are gay and white with chaparral blossom, which gives the
whole landscape a pleasant, gala-day appearance. It rains all the evening,
and at night turns to heavy, damp snow, which clings to the trees and
bushes. In the morning the landscape, which a few hours before was white
with chaparral bloom, is now even more white with the bloom of the snow.
My hostelry at Clipper Gap is a kind of half ranch, half roadside inn,
down in a small valley near the railway; and mine host, a jovial Irish
blade of the good old "Donnybrook Fair" variety, who came here in 1851,
during the great rush to the gold fields, and, failing to make his fortune
in the "diggings," wisely decided to send for his family and settle
down quietly on a piece of land, in preference to returning to the "ould
sod."He turns out to be a "bit av a sphort meself," and, after
showing me a number of minor pets and favorites, such as game chickens,
Brahma geese, and a litter of young bull pups, he proudly leads the way
to the barn to show me "Barney," his greatest pet of all, whom he at
present keeps securely tied up for safe-keeping. More than one evil-minded
person has a hankering after Barney's gore since his last battle for the
championship of Placer County, he explains, in which he inflicted severe
punishment on his adversary and resolutely refused to give in; although
his opponent on this important occasion was an imported dog, brought
into the county by Barney's enemies, who hoped to fill their pockets by
betting against the local champion. But Barney, who is a medium-sized,
ferocious-looking bull terrier, "scooped"the crowd backing the imported
dog, to the extent of their "pile," by "walking all round" his adversary;
and thereby stirring up the enmity of said crowd against himself, who - so
says Barney's master - have never yet been able to scare up a dog able to
"down" Barney. As we stand in the barn-door Barney eyes me suspiciously,
and then looks at his master; but luckily for me his master fails to
give the word. Noticing that the dog is scarred and seamed all over, I
inquire the reason, and am told that he has been fighting wild boars in
the chaparral, of which gentle pastime he is extremely fond. "Yes, and
he'll tackle a cougar too, of which there are plenty of them around here,
if that cowardly animal would only keep out of the trees," admiringly
continues mine host, as he orders Barney into his empty salt-barrel
again.

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