To me one of Life"s greatest delights, appealing alike to body, mind and soul, is a camping-out trip. Breathing day and night the pure air of mountain and forest,--occasionally swept by breezes from desert and ocean,--exercising one"s body into vigorous healthfulness, sweating in the sun with life-giving labor,--even though it be only tramping or riding up and down trails,--sauntering over meadows, rambling and exploring untrailed s.p.a.ces, under giant sky-piercing trees; lying down at night on the restful brown Mother Earth; sleeping peacefully and dreamlessly through delicious star-and-moon-lit nights, cooled and refreshed by the night winds, awakening in the morning full of new life and vigor, to feel the fresh tang of the air and the cool shock of the wash (or even plunge) in the snow-or-spring-fed stream; companioning with birds and bees, chipmunks and squirrels, grouse and quail, deer and antelope, trees and plants, shrubs and flowers, lava and granite, lakes and creeks, rivers and ponds; smelling the sweet fragrance of the trees, shrubs, plants and vines; bathing in an atmosphere of calm and quiet that seems almost Divine; covered with a sky as cloudless and pure blue as the dome of heaven itself, and which, at night, changes into a rich blue-black velvet, studded with silvery emblazonments, that dance and dazzle in the pellucid air; listening to the varied voices of Nature, each eager to give tongue to its joy; eating healthful, simple food with appet.i.te and relish; absorbing the a.s.surance that Nature means good and nothing but good to man, thus coming nearer to the heart of G.o.d; losing the fret and worry of money-getting and all other of Life"s lower ambitions and strivings; feeling the inflow of strength,--physical, mental and spiritual; gaining calmness, serenity, poise and power;--is there any wonder that a man so blessed should speak and write with radiant and exuberant enthusiasm of that which has been so lavish to him. This is what camping-out (in part) means to me.
Hence, when I leave home for a mountain trip I always put into my _Indestructo_[1] an extra blue flannel shirt, riding boots and breeches (or a pair of overalls), a cap, and a bottle of Vaseline. The hunter and fisherman, of course, will bring his especial equipment, as, also, will the geologist or botanist.
The first essentials of a successful camping-out trip are personal.
One must have the receptive and acceptive spirit. No matter what comes it is for the best; an experience worth having. Nothing must be complained of. The "grouch" has no place on a camping-trip, and one who is a "grouch," a "sissy," a "faultfinder," a "worrier," a "quitter," or who cannot or will not enter fully into the spirit of the thing had better stay at home.
[Footnote 1: _Indestructo_ is the name given to a trunk that has been such a delight to me for its enduring and useful qualities, that I cannot refrain from "pa.s.sing it on." A poor trunk, to a constant traveler, is a perpetual nuisance and worry. My trunks always gave me trouble until I got an _Indestructo_. Since then I have had freedom from all such distress. It is fully insured for five years.]
If experiences are met with that are disagreeable, meet them as a man should; a woman always does,--or always has on trips taken with me.
The "self-pitier," the "self-indulgent," the "fearful" also had better stay at home.
The next essentials are a good guide--such as is suggested by the Dedication of this book--and good saddle-and-pack-animals, good bedding, good food and the proper season. Then if the spot you have chosen contains anything worth while, you cannot fail to have an enjoyable, interesting, educative, health-giving and generally profitable time.
In outfitting for such a trip always put into your pocket (and in the pack a reserve supply) a few Grant"s crackers, a handful of Horlick"s Malted Milk tablets, and a cake of Ghirardelli"s chocolate. With these you are safe for a whole day or two, or more, if anything should happen to separate you from your pack animal, or you should desire to ride on without stopping to prepare a noon, or later, camp meal.
The Tahoe Region offers scores of just such trips, where for one or two months each year for a dozen years a visitor may camp-out in some new region. For instance, every student of G.o.d"s handiwork should go up to Deer Park, camp-out at Five Lakes, and study the evidences of lava flows at the head of Bear Creek. Go to the Lake of the Woods and spend a week there, tracing the glacial movements that made Desolation Valley. Take such a trip as I enjoyed to h.e.l.l Hole on the Rubicon, but take more time for it than I could give; cross the range to the Yosemite, and thus link the two sublimest parts of the Sierras in your memory; follow the old trails that used to echo to the voices of pioneers from Michigan Bluff, Last Chance, Hayden Hill, etc.; go out with one of the Forest Rangers and get a glimpse into his wonderful life of activity, independence and solitude. Thus you will come in contact with larger conceptions, fuller ideas, deeper sympathies, higher aspirations than is possible where you follow the ordinary routine of the ordinary, mediocre, self-contented man. Thank G.o.d for the spark of discontent, of ambition, of aspiration, of desire to see beyond, to know more, to climb higher, to solve the mysteries, to abolish the unknown.
Then, if you dare the perils and joys of winter, get Bob Watson, or some other expert on snow-shoes to go with you over Tahoe"s wild wastes of snow. Emulate Snow-shoe Thompson, a short sketch of whose life and adventures will be found in my book, _Heroes of California_, and henceforth the days and nights of spring, summer, fall and winter will never seem quite the same to you.
Merely as a sample, the balance of this chapter is devoted to the trip made in the fall of 1913 with Watson from Tahoe Tavern.
TO h.e.l.lHOLE AND THE RUBICON RIVER
I certainly think I can conjecture with accuracy the way it received its name. The trails in and out were first made and used by the wild animals--bear, deer, antelope, mountain lions, etc., then by the first Americans--the Indians, and at last, by the white man. Undoubtedly the first whites to come over the trails were miners from the Georgetown and Placerville districts, lured by the marvelous discoveries of the Comstock lode in Virginia City. Then in 1862-3 came the Squaw Valley stampede and this "strike" being so much nearer than the Comstock naturally attracted much attention, especially as the California mines of the Sierra Nevada were becoming less profitable. One of these old miners, whose language was more luridly picturesque than refined, on coming into the region or going out of it,--when he struck the rough, rugged, uncertain, rocky, and exceedingly steep grade, must have called it a "h.e.l.l of a hole" to get into or out of, and in future references the name stuck until, at last, it was pa.s.sed down to future ages on the maps of the U.S. Geological Survey as the true and correct name.
[Ill.u.s.tration: Angora Lake, near Lake Tahoe, Calif.]
[Ill.u.s.tration: GLENBROOK ON THE NEVADA SIDE OF LAKE TAHOE]
[Ill.u.s.tration: THE STEAMER _TAHOE_, AT THE WHARF, JUST BEFORE STARTING AROUND THE LAKE]
But if the reader thinks the name in the slightest degree characteristic of the place itself he never made a greater blunder.
Instead, it is a paradise of delightful surprises. A large, fairly level area--hundreds of acres at least--through which runs the clear and pellucid waters of the Rubicon River on their way to join those of the American, and dotted all over with giant cedars, pines, firs and live oaks, with tiny secluded meadows, lush with richest gra.s.ses, it is a place to lure the city-dweller for a long and profitable vacation. Whether he hunts, fishes, botanizes, geologizes or merely loafs and invites his soul, it is equally fascinating, and he is a wise man who breaks loose from "Society"--spelled with either a capital or small letter--the bank, the office, the counting-house, the store, the warehouse, the mill, or the factory, and, with a genial companion or two, buries himself away from the outer world in this restful, peaceful, and G.o.d-blessed solitude.
When I first saw it I exclaimed: "h.e.l.l Hole? Then give me more of it,"
and instead of hastening on to other places of well-known charm, I insisted upon one day at least of complete rest to allow its perfection to "seep in" and become a part of my intimate inner life of remembrance.
It was under Bob Watson"s efficient guidance I left Tahoe Tavern, for a five day trip. We took a pack-horse well laden with grub, utensils for cooking and our sleeping bags. Riding down the Truckee, up Bear Creek, past Deer Park Springs, I was struck more forcibly than ever before by the marvelous glacial phenomena in the amphitheater at the head of the canyon through a portion of which the trail pa.s.ses, and also with the volcanic ma.s.ses that rest upon the granite, mainly on the right hand side of the pa.s.s. Its first appearance shows a cap of from two hundred to three hundred feet in thickness; later on two other patches of it appear, the upper one presenting the granite and superposed granite on the same level, clearly indicating a channel of early erosion filled up by the later flow of volcanic matter.
Pa.s.sing by Five Lakes and down Five Lake Creek to its junction with the canyon down which we had come from the Little American Valley, we were soon headed down the creek for the Rubicon. To the right towered Mt. Mildred (8400 feet), on the other side of which is Shank"s Cove.
Shank was a sheep-man who for years ran his sheep here during the summer, taking them down to the Sacramento Valley in winter. After pa.s.sing several gra.s.sy meadows, cottonwood groves, and alder thickets we reached Bear Pen Creek, a rocky, bone-dry crossing, nine miles from the divide. To the left, Powder Horn Creek comes in, which heads on the northwestern slope of the ridge, on which, on the southern side, Barker Creek has its rise. It received this peculiar name from the fact that General Phipps, from whom Phipps Peak is named, was once chasing a bear, when suddenly the infuriated animal turned upon him, made a savage strike at him with his paw and succeeded in knocking the bottom out of his old-fashioned powder-horn.
Further down we came suddenly upon a hawk who had just captured a grouse, and taken off his head. As the bird dropped his prey on our approach we took it as a gift of the G.o.ds, and next morning, with two or three quail, it made an excellent breakfast for us.
Nearing the descent into h.e.l.l Hole we gained striking glimpses of a great glacially-formed valley in the mountains on the farther side, while a ridge to our left revealed a cap of volcanic rock apparently of columnar structure and extending from the eastern end half way the length of the ridge.
Watson a.s.sured me that here he has found herds of sixteen and nineteen deer, on separate occasions. They seem to follow, in the early spring, the line of the melting snow. At this time they are tame and fearless, and will stand and look at you with surprise and impatience. They seldom run away. On one occasion he came upon a doe and two fawns not far from the brink or ridge of h.e.l.l Hole. He was close upon them before he was aware, but stopped suddenly. The doe saw him, but instead of turning to flee she stood and impatiently stamped her foot several times. Then as he seemed to pay no attention and to be harmless, she and her young began to graze again, and shortly disappeared.
Before long we arrived at what may be called the "jumping-off place."
In reality it is a steep descent into the depths of a wide canyon, but earth has so lodged in the rocky slopes that they are covered with dense growths of trees and chaparral, so that it is impossible to see very far ahead. Down, down, down we went, winding and twisting, curving around and dodging, but getting deeper with every zig-zag until almost as suddenly as we began the steep descent we found ourselves on a fairly level platform. h.e.l.l Hole was reached.
The day spent here was a delightful one. While Watson fished I wrote, loafed, rambled about, studied the rock formations, and wished for a week or more instead of a day.
Next morning we struck into the canyon of the Rubicon River, for Soda Spring, half a mile away, where salt and soda exude in such quant.i.ties as to whiten the rocks. Here the deer, bear, grouse, quail, ground-hogs, and other creatures come for salt. Indeed, this is a natural "salt lick," and there are eight or ten piles of rock, behind which Indian and white hunters used to watch for the coming of the game they desired to kill. Twenty years ago one could get game here practically every day. The Washoes used to descend the western slope as far as this; the men for deer, the women for acorns, though they had to be on the alert as the Sierra Indians resented their intrusion.
Right and left as we rode on there were great "islands" of granite, fifty to one hundred feet high, ma.s.ses that either had been hurled from the heights above in some cataclysm, or planed to their present shape by long-forgotten glaciers. These granite ma.s.ses alternate with flower and shrub-bestrewed meadows that once were glacial lakes.
At times we found ourselves in a dense forest where the trees were ancient monarchs, whose solitudes had never been disturbed by stroke of ax, or grate of saw. Clumps of dogwood and chaparral of a dozen kinds confuse the tyro, and he loses all sense of direction. Only the instinct that makes a real mountain and forest guide could enable one successfully to navigate these overgrown wilds, for we were now wandering up a region where trails had been abandoned for years. Here and there, when we came to the rocky slopes "ducks"[2] in confusing variety were found but scarce a sign of a trail, and the "blazes"
on the trees were more confusing than if we had been left to our own devices.
Yellow jackets" nests hung from many branches, and we were now and then pestered by the flying creatures themselves. Then we had a good laugh. Our pack-horse, Shoshone, got between two trees. His head could pa.s.s but his pack couldn"t, and there he stood struggling to pull through. He couldn"t do it, but stupidly he would not back up.
Talk about horse-sense! A burro would have backed up in a minute, but most horses would struggle in such a place until they died.
[Footnote 2: _Ducks_ are small piles of stone so placed as to denote the course of the trail.]
Near here there came into sight a granite ridge between the Rubicon and Five Lake Creek. This grows higher until it becomes quite a mountain, between Five Lake Creek and Barker Creek. On the right McKinstry Peak (7918 feet) towered up, with its double top, leading the eye along a ridge of red granite rock to Red Peak.
About three miles up the canyon we found a number of rocky basins in the course of the Rubicon with water, eight, ten and more feet deep in them, temptingly suggesting a plunge. I didn"t need much tempting, and as quickly as I could disrobe I had plunged in. What a cold, invigorating shock it was. There"s nothing like such a plunge for thoroughly arousing one and sending the blood quickly coursing through his veins.
Nearby were great beds of brake-ferns, four and five feet high, groves of immense alders, sugar pines, some of which were fully eight feet through and the trunks of which were honeycombed with woodp.e.c.k.e.r holes. I saw and heard several woodp.e.c.k.e.rs at work. They had red top-knots, and the noise they made echoed through the woods more as if a sledge hammer had struck the tree than the bill of a bird. How they climb up the trunk of the trees, holding on in a mysterious fashion and moving head up or down, as they desire, with jerky little pulls, bobbing their heads as if emphasizing some remarks they were making to themselves.
And what ideal spots for camping-out we pa.s.sed, shady trees, nearby meadows, to give abundant feed for the horses, the pure waters of the Rubicon close by, with scenery, trees, flowers, animals, birds--all the glory of nature--surrounding one with objects of delight, interest and study.
One large area was strewn with hundreds of thousands of the big long cones of the sugar pine. When one wishes to pack and ship home specimens of these and other cones, it is well to soak them in water.
They then close up and carry safely, opening up as before, as they dry out.
Then we pa.s.sed some giant "wind falls," mainly spruces. The roots of these monarchs of the forest had twined themselves around rocks of every size and shape, some of them ma.s.sive bowlders, but when the storm came, the purchase, or leverage of the tall trees was so great that these heavy rock-ma.s.ses were pulled out of place and lifted up as the trees crashed over to their fall.
Now we came to a stretch of perfect virgin forest. No ax, no saw, no log chutes, no wagons, no dragging of logs, no sign of the hand of man. Nature was the only woodsman, with her storms and winds, her snows and rains, to soften the soil and uproot her growing sons and daughters. There was confusion in places, even rude chaos, but in and through and above it all a cleanness, a sweetness, a purity, a grandeur, harmony, glory, beauty and majesty--all of which disappear when destroying man comes upon the scene.
About five miles up, we left the Rubicon and struck up toward Barker Creek. Here was another of the great, tempting granite basins, full of clear cool water. We also pa.s.sed patches of belated scarlet larkspur, shooting stars, and glaring golden-rod.
Half a mile up we reached Barker Creek, now a bowlder-strewn arroyo which aroused my covetousness to high degree. How I would love to build, with my own hands, a cottage, bungalow or house of some kind with these great bowlders, of varied sizes and colors, shapes and material.
Just above the junction of Barker Creek and the Rubicon is "Little h.e.l.l Hole," a camping-place almost as famous as its larger namesake, and noted for the fact that half a mile away is a small canyon full of mineral springs--sulphur, iron, soda, magnesia, etc. Naturally it is a "deer-lick," which makes it a Mecca during the open season to hunters.
The springs bubble up out of the bed of the stream, the water of which is stained with the coloring matter. When the stream runs low so that one can get to the springs he finds some of them as pleasant to the taste as those of Rubicon and Glen Alpine.
As we got higher we left the spruces behind, and the junipers, covered with berries, began to appear. Then we came to open s.p.a.ces where the wind began to sing in the tops of the pines.
About a mile up Barker Creek, Watson showed me the course of one of his trails back to the Tavern. It ascends a formidable ridge and leads quickly to Idlewyld, but we were bound for Rubicon Springs. The old trail was inaccessible, but Mr. Colwell of the Springs had lately marked out a new trail, so we took our chances on finding our way somehow. Over windfalls, up and down and around rocky promontories, we came to West Meadow Creek Wash, its rude bowlder-strewn course striking directly across our path. Here we struck beds of brakes nestling in the shade of giant trees. On the left side of the creek where we were, we ran into dense clumps of wild-cherry which prevented further progress. Scouting found us an outlet on the other side of Barker Creek. The divide on the left towered up with rugged majesty, reddish in color, and split into gigantic irregular terraces, the taluses of which were all crowded with dense chaparral growths.
On this side the slopes were all more open, nothing but rugged bowlders clinging on the bare surfaces.
How enjoyable was this forcing our way along through these solitary wilderness places, so that I was really sorry when we finally dropped over a forested slope into the Rubicon Springs and McKinney"s Road. A mile away we found the hotel, with Mr. and Mrs. Colwell. The buildings are old but all nature is gloriously grand and beautiful.
Though cordially invited to stay overnight, we pushed on over the Rubicon River, up the hill on part of the Georgetown road for a mile and a half,--from which we had a fine view of Buck Island Lake,--struck the trail for another mile and in the early afternoon made camp at Rock Bound Lake. Here we rowed and swam, studied the country from the nearby hills, and then slept the sleep of the healthfully weary under the blue vault of heaven.
Though Rubicon Springs was not far away there was such an air of quietude in this spot that we felt as if we were in one of Nature"s choicest retreats.