When the writer of this book first visited Yosemite a few years ago, no motor car was allowed to intrude in its sylvan solitudes and it was freely alleged by the stage drivers that the time would never come when this noisy, dust-raising demon would be permitted to frighten their horses and disturb their equanimity. Their attitude was one of decided hostility, though they affected to laugh at the suggestion—the roads were too crooked and narrow and the grades too steep for “automobeels”—no, sir, you’d never see them in Yosemite. Besides, the horses in the park had never seen these pesky machines; they would simply go crazy and dump the coaches over the cliffs. All of which seemed reasonable enough at the time and nothing was farther from my mind than the idea of piloting a car through the devious trails that serve for roads in this sylvan wonderland. But “tempora mutantur,” indeed. Motor cars in California increased in geometrical ratio and the owners banded themselves together in the live and efficient organization known as the Automobile Club of Southern California. This246 club contended that no good reason could be urged against admitting motor cars to Yosemite and after a dint of effort succeeded in bringing the Secretary of the Interior to the same point of view. True, the decree was issued with apparent fear and hesitation and the venturesome motorist who wished to explore the park was hedged about with restrictions and hampered with endless red tape regulations. The cars came, nevertheless, though probably as many were deterred by the stringent rules as by the forbidding roads.
The dire results so freely predicted by the stage men did not materialize in any great degree. There were few serious accidents and the motors, as a rule, met with little difficulty in negotiating the roads to and within the park. As a consequence, the rules were relaxed with each succeeding year and many of the most annoying regulations abandoned or reduced to mere formalities. We made our trip in September of the Panama-Pacific year, and during the previous months of the season nearly two thousand cars had preceded us into the park. We did not have to demonstrate that “either set of brakes would lock the wheels to a skid;” in fact, I am very dubious on this point. We did not have to get up at an unearthly hour to enter or leave the park and the time schedule imposed247 on us was so reasonable that none but the speed maniac would care to exceed it, even had no severe penalty been attached. It was all simple enough and our trials in doing Yosemite by motor lay in a different direction than the rules and regulations, as will appear in due course of my narrative.
There are several routes by which one may enter and leave the park pending the happy day longed for by the Auto Club when a broad, smooth road—“no grades exceeding five per cent”—shall convey the joyful motorist to this Earthly Paradise of the Sierras. You can go from Fresno via Coarse Gold, from Merced via Coulterville, from Stockton via Chinese Camp, or from Madera via Raymond. You can now even reach the park from the east by the new Tioga road, branching off the Sierra Highway at Mono Lake, should you be seeking the wildest and most difficult route of all.
We decided, for reasons which may become apparent as I proceed, to make our entrance by the Madera route and to leave the park with Stockton as our objective. We still have reason to believe that as things stood at the time—or even now—these routes were the most satisfactory and we are quite sure that whatever improvement may be made, the tourist interested in pioneer days of California and fond of wild248 and impressive scenery should choose the Stockton road at least one way.
We did not get away from Fresno, where we passed the night preceding our start for Wawona, until late in the afternoon. A swift run over the splendid new highway brought us to Madera about four in the evening, but there remained little hope of covering sixty miles of unknown mountain road to Wawona before nightfall. A glance at our maps revealed Raymond, about twenty-five miles farther on—the terminal of a branch railroad from Madera. We decided that Raymond would make a good stopping-point for the night; an early start would easily enable us to reach Yosemite the next day. So we set out over a choppy and very dusty dirt road which was conducive to anything but speed and comfort, but which nevertheless brought us to our objective in the course of an hour.
We found a forlorn-looking hamlet in the edge of the foothills and a glance at the ramshackle wooden hotel was anything but reassuring. A short conversation with the proprietor of a little shack labeled “garage” was not more encouraging. He was very noncommittal about the merits of the hotel and finally said,
“It’s only thirty miles to Miami Lodge—mighty comfortable place; you ought to reach249 there before it gets dark. Shall I telephone them to hold dinner for you?”
All of which sounded good to us as we contemplated prospective accommodations in Raymond, and with a speedy acquiescence we were away for Miami Lodge. Ten miles per hour, said the garage man, would be a good average for a greenhorn over the road we were to traverse—a ridiculously low estimate, we thought, but we had not proceeded far before we agreed with his conservatism. A narrow and exceedingly tortuous road plunged into the hills, threading its way among giant pines or creeping precariously along steep hillsides and around abrupt corners deep with dust and at times laboriously steep. Now and then it emerged into pleasant little glades and on entering one of these we saw a young mountain lion trotting leisurely toward the thicket. Of course our small rifle was under a pile of baggage, unloaded, and the cartridges in a grip, but we consoled ourselves with remarks about the extreme improbability of hitting him even if we had the gun.
It was sunset by the time we had covered little more than half the distance and while we regarded the approaching darkness with some apprehension, for the road showed no signs of improvement, we forgot it all in our admiration for the enchanting scene. Many were the magnificent250 vistas opening through the pines skirting our road along the mountainside. Purple hills topped with dark forests stretched away to a crimson sky; shadowy canyons sloped far beneath us, their mysterious deeps shrouded in a soft blue haze. It was a constantly changing yet always entrancing picture until the color faded from the skies and the canyons were blotted out by the gathering blackness. Then the road demanded our undivided attention, for we covered the last ten miles in pitch darkness and our neglected headlights proved in very poor condition.
About dusk we passed a little store and postoffice bearing the poetic name of Grub Gulch and later came to a comfortable-looking roadside inn, the Ahwahnee Tavern, where we should doubtless have stopped had our accommodations not been ordered at Miami Lodge. We learned, however, that this was only six miles farther and we crept cautiously onward over the stiff grades and around the abrupt turns. We were glad indeed when the lights of the Lodge twinkled through the pines and, leaving the old car to shift for herself under the stars, made a hasty toilet and attacked the substantial meal we found ready for us.
The Lodge is a comfortable rustic inn set in the pines on a hillside which slopes down to251 a clear creek dammed at one point into a small lake. The little valley forms a natural amphitheater surrounded by the forest-clad hills and is altogether a pleasant and restful spot well away from noise and disturbance of any kind. The creek is stocked with rainbow trout and big game is fairly common—attractions which bring many sportsmen to the Lodge. It is easy of access by the Madera-Yosemite auto stages which run daily during the season.
Beyond Miami Lodge we found the road even more trying than it was southward. Heavy grades and sharp turns continued, and deep dust and rough stretches caused much discomfort. We met many motor trucks and several heavy wagons drawn by six or eight horses, which made ticklish work in passing on the narrow grades and which stirred up clouds of yellow dust. As the sun mounted, the day became intolerably hot, making it necessary to elevate our cape top which combined with the dust to interfere with our view of the scenery.
The famous Mariposa Grove of giant redwoods lies a short distance off the main road to Wawona and though we had visited this before, we could not resist the temptation to do the big trees by motor. An attendant at the entrance gate demanded a fee of one dollar and admitted us to a narrow, winding road which steadily252 climbed a stiff grade for about three miles before we came to the trees. We renewed our acquaintance with the Grizzly Giant, reputed the oldest of living things on this mundane sphere. We found him protected by a high wire fence to ward off fiends suffering from the name-carving mania or souvenir seekers who sought to rob him of a chip or twig. He had not aged perceptibly since our previous visit and looked good for many more centuries, though the late John Muir once declared his belief that the Grizzly Giant had passed his zenith of growth and is now in his decline, a point not yet reached by any other redwood. But the hoar old monarch stands a second visit well indeed, though one may not experience quite the feeling of awe always inspired by the first sight of these mighty trees. It quite overwhelms one to reflect that here is a living thing older than the oldest records of the human race—a life that was in its infancy at the beginnings of Egyptian civilization. So impressive to us was the Giant and the reveries he excited that we hardly gave due attention to his three hundred and sixty-four companions in this grove, the least of which, taken by itself, might well excite the astonishment of anyone who had never before seen a redwood. Of course we had the novel experience of piloting a motor car through the living arch of the Wawona while253 completing the circle through the grove which brought us again into the road by which we entered.
Wawona is only four miles from the big-tree road, a rough, dusty, and very winding four miles with a good many steep grades, and it was an interesting comparison to recall the trip we made over it in a coach-and-four on our previous visit to the grove. Making due allowance for all the discomforts one experiences in an automobile during a hot, dusty day on difficult mountain roads, our present method of travel made the memory of the snail’s pace and suffocating dust and heat of our former trip to the grove seem more than ever like a nightmare.
We reached Wawona in time for the noonday luncheon at the pleasant old inn which has been the haven of sightseers for nearly half a century. It is delightfully situated in a little vale amidst a group of towering pines and all about it green meadows stretch away to the forest-clad hills that surround it on every hand. Through the valley runs the South Merced, famous for its mountain trout, a delicacy which guests at the inn sometimes enjoy. About the main hotel building are scattered several isolated cottages for the accommodation of guests who may be particular about privacy and plenty of light and air. There are numerous beautiful254 drives in the vicinity aside from the Mariposa Grove trip. One of these follows the river for some distance and another makes a circuit of the valley.
We had no time for these, as we were intent upon reaching Yosemite for the night and the regulation is that you check in at the final station by six o’clock. About a mile from Wawona we found the cabin of the ranger who issues tickets for the south entrance to the park. The formalities detained us but a few moments, since with the great influx of motor tourists during the exposition year, much of the original red tape was dispensed with. A copy of the rules and regulations was given us and the time of our entrance was stamped upon the ticket to be delivered to the superintendent at Yosemite village. The action of our small rifle was sealed and, with a friendly caution that it would be unwise to exceed the limit, we were ordered to proceed. Knowing something of the trip from previous experience we felt no uneasiness about exceeding the two hours and twenty-seven minutes minimum time allowed for covering the twenty-eight and nine-tenths miles between the station and Yosemite garage. No one but a confirmed speed maniac would care to exceed this very reasonable limit and anyone wise enough to admire the scenery along the road as it deserves to be admired255 might well consume twice the minimum time.
For some miles after entering the park we climbed the long, steady grade following the South Merced Canyon, always at a considerable distance above the stream, which we could see at intervals through the pines, flashing over its rock-strewn bed. There was scarcely a downward dip in the road for the first half-dozen miles, and we could not but recall the distressing effort of the horses as they toiled painfully upward on our former trip while we sat disconsolately enveloped in smothering clouds of dust. What a contrast we found in the steady, cheerful hum of our engine as it drove our car onward at not less than the permitted speed of fifteen miles, leaving the dust behind us and affording unhindered views of the endless panoramas of canyons and hills. Despite the heat and some murmurs from the back seat about the effect of the too ardent caresses of California sunshine on the complexion, we had lowered the cape top, for no one can get the full effect of the towering pines that skirt this road unless he has the open heavens above him. One will not often come across—even in California—finer individual cedars, sugar pines, and yellow pines than he will see here—splendid arrow-straight shafts several feet in circumference, often rising to a height256 of two or even three hundred feet. It is, indeed, pleasant to think that they are immune from the lumberman’s ax and guarded carefully against devastating fires. We paused at times in the shade of these forest titans and contemplated the wide range of hills and valleys beyond the canyon—particularly at Lookout Point, some seven or eight miles from Wawona. Here we beheld a seemingly endless panorama of forest-clad hills stretching away until lost in the infinite distance of the lucent afternoon. Once before we had beheld the same scene—at sunset, the hills shrouded in an amethyst haze, the valleys dim with purple shadows, and the sky resplendent with crimson and gold. Nothing could have shown more impressively the wonderful variations of the same landscape at different hours of the day, or proven more completely that one must come many times to see the beauty of Yosemite.
Three or four miles beyond Lookout Point the road branches, the left fork leading to Glacier Point, a distance of fourteen miles. This is a magnificent drive through virgin forests and should not be missed by anyone who has not made the trip. There is an old-fashioned hotel at Glacier Point where one may be fairly comfortable for the night and it is worth while to remain for the night to witness the sunrise over257 the mountain ramparts of the Valley. We did not undertake this trip, having made it a few years before by stage, but for all that we are sorry now that we let slip an opportunity to view the wonderful Glacier Point panorama a second time and some day, shall have to go back again.
Continuing a few miles farther, we came to the top of the grade leading down into the valley. We recalled it as a stiff, strenuous road, winding around sharp curves and often along the edge of sheer precipices which gave us a great many thrills from our high perch beside the driver of our four-in-hand. We had traversed mountain roads so much worse in the meanwhile that Wawona grade really seemed quite tame from a motor car and even the ladies took only languid interest in its twists and turns. We paused again for the third time at the famous Inspiration Point, and, indeed, we can not help envying those who are fortunate to come into the Yosemite by this road and thus get their first glimpse of the valley from Inspiration Point. Perhaps the view from Glacier Point is as glorious but one is not likely to come upon it so suddenly and is somehow expecting stupendous things, but Inspiration Point bursts on the wayfarer from the Wawona all unaware and he sees unfold before him almost in an instant all the marvelous sights that have made Yosemite a258 world’s wonder. I have tried elsewhere—in a previous book—to tell something of my impressions when I first viewed this unmatched scene and perhaps I may be pardoned for a short repetition of my words, since I do not know that I can do any better in describing it.
“Inspiration Point! Well named, indeed, for it must surely be a prosaic imagination that does not kindle with enthusiasm at the prospect. ‘It comes up to the brag,’ is what Ralph Waldo Emerson said after contemplating it long in silence—or at least that is what the guide books and railroad literature credit him with having said. It sounds strangely unlike our staid and gentle philosopher, whose language we are wont to admire as the finality in polished English. But it expresses one’s feelings more strongly, perhaps, than fine words. We have been led to expect much; they have assured us and we have often read, that the view from Inspiration Point is surpassed by few panoramas in the world—if, indeed, by any—for grandeur of mountain, cliff, and peak and for beauty of contour and color, and all of these are enhanced by the magic of the hour when we are so fortunate as to see it.
“The valley lies before us in the soft blue haze of the evening shadows, and its encompassing walls and towers are kindled with the purple and golden hues of the sunset. As one contemplates259 the glittering peaks and domes and the ranges of glowing mountains out beyond, he can realize John Muir’s characterization of the Sierras as the ‘Mountains of Light.’ The grandeur of Inspiration Point seems more of cliffs and spires, of towering walls and mountain peaks, while from Glacier Point one is perhaps more interested in the details of the valley itself. But from either point one may witness a scene that will possess his soul and whose beauty will linger through the years. We regret the necessity which hurries us from the scene, for the pause of the stage coach is but momentary. We have had but a glimpse of a landscape that might well hold one’s rapt attention for hours.”
It is the third time we have viewed this wonderful scene and we have been fortunate in coming each time at a different period of the day—morning and evening and early afternoon. Each has shown us a different phase of the beauty of Yosemite, for the variation of light and consequent changes of coloring have everything to do with the view from Inspiration Point.
We proceed............