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There are two routes from Sacramento to Lake Tahoe which carry nine-tenths of the motor travel to that interesting region. Both traverse a picturesque mountain country with a spice of historic and romantic interest and most motor visitors, naturally enough, go by one route and return by the other. That we did not do so was the result of the miscarriage of our plans, due to a break-down of the car we had leased of a Los Angeles dealer for our first trip. This made it necessary to go part of the way by train and when repairs to the car were made, we returned by the route over which we had come. The following year, in our own car, we again visited Tahoe, going from San Francisco by the way of Sacramento and Placerville and continuing our journey northward from the lake.

In each instance we passed the night at Sacramento, which is the best starting point for the day’s run to Tahoe, being about one hundred and twenty miles distant by either route. We were sure of every comfort and convenience here—there are a dozen hotels ranging from good-enough to first-class—and our repeated visits had given us more and more of a liking for Sacramento. It is a clean, beautiful city, practically a seaport, so deep and broad is its mighty tide-water river, which carries a yearly commerce, incoming and outgoing, of an aggregate value of more than fifty million dollars. The surrounding country is very fertile, with greatly varied agricultural and fruit-growing resources which form the basis of the city’s prosperity and assure its future. Its streets and private and public buildings have a truly metropolitan appearance which in the east would indicate a city of much more than fifty or sixty thousand population. The Capitol building, a white marble structure of purely classic lines, stands in a beautiful semi-tropic park of about forty acres. This is beautified with endless varieties of shrubs and trees, among them palms of many species, for the climate is such that orange groves, olives and almonds flourish quite as vigorously as in Southern California. The oranges ripen here from six weeks to two months earlier than in the south, giving the growers the advantage of early markets, and the quality of the fruit is equal to the best. Surrounding the city are endless orchards of peach, pear, prune, apricot, cherry, and many other varieties of fruit trees; and there are extensive vineyards of both wine and table grapes. Dairying, stock-raising, gardening, as well as other branches of farming are carried on—very profitably, if one may judge by appearances. Manufacturing is also done on a considerable scale in the city and vicinity and gold mining in the county is an industry producing about two millions annually. All of which would seem to indicate that Sacramento has not yet reached the zenith of its growth and prosperity. It is favorably situated as to railroads, having a service of three transcontinental lines since the Santa Fe has leased right of way over the Western Pacific. The new state highway enters the city from north and south and a direct route has been opened to San Francisco by the completion of the great Yolo Trestle, shortening the distance by wagon road—thirty miles less than via Stockton and Altamont, formerly the standard route. This great engineering feat bridges the Yolo basin, which is flooded during several months of the year, with a solid concrete causeway twenty-one feet wide and over three miles long, carried on re-enforced concrete piles rising twenty feet above ground. It was completed in about eighteen months and cost a little under four hundred thousand dollars. We ran over it on our last trip to Sacramento and it seemed like a fairy tale indeed to be bowling along twenty feet above the formerly impassable marsh as safely and smoothly as upon an asphalted city boulevard. In addition to the state highway, Sacramento County already has many miles of good road of her own construction, but she is planning still larger things in the immediate future. A highway bond issue of two million dollars was authorized late in 1916 by a majority of nearly four to one, emphatically proving the enlightenment of the citizens of the county on the question of improved roads. The proceeds of this issue will improve practically all the main highways and make Sacramento County one of the favorite touring grounds of the state.

Historically, the capital city is one of the most interesting towns in the state, since it is the oldest settlement of white men in the interior of California. It had a population of more than ten thousand in 1849, though doubtless the majority of the inhabitants were transient gold-seekers. It was the goal of the greater number of emigrants who came overland during the “gold fever” period and was a famous outfitting point for the prospective miners who rushed here because of the proximity of the gold fields. Ten years earlier a colony of Swiss emigrants, under the name of New Helvetia, was established on the present site of the city by Col. John H. Sutter. It soon became better known as Sutter’s Fort, on account of the solid blockhouse built by the founder, which still stands in good repair, now containing a museum of relics of pioneer days. Sutter employed John Marshall, whom he sent to Coloma, some fifty miles east of Sacramento, to build a mill on the South American river. Here Marshall picked up the famous nugget that threw the whole world into a ferment in the late forties and turned the tide of emigration to California.

But perhaps we are permitting our fondness for Sacramento to detain us too long on the subject; it did not prevent us, however, from getting an early start from our hotel on the Auburn road for Tahoe. Out of the city for several miles through a fertile orchard and farm country, we pursued a level, well-improved road which led us toward the great hill range that marks the western confines of the valley. Entering the rounded brown foothills, we kept a steady ascent through scattering groves of oak and pine, with here and there along the way a well-ordered stock farm or fruit ranch. It was in the height of the peach season and a sign at a ranch house gate tempted us to purchase. A silver dime brought us such a quantity of big, luscious, rosy-cheeked fruit that we scarcely knew where to bestow it about the car. It was just off the tree and ripe to perfection, and by comparison with the very best one could buy in a fruit market, it seemed a new and unheard-of variety—ambrosia fit only for the gods. Its fragrance and savoriness linger with us yet and do much to mitigate the recollection of divers disasters and disappointments that overtook us ere we reached our destination. And they told us that so immense was the crop of peaches and pears in this locality that some of this unequalled fruit was being fed to the pigs.

Following a winding but fair road through the hills, we soon came, as we supposed, into the main part of Auburn, for we had taken no pains to learn anything about the town. At the foot of a sharp hill we paused in a crooked street with a row of ramshackle buildings on either side and it was apparent at a glance that the population of the ancient-looking town was chiefly Chinese. A few saloons and one or two huge wooden boarding houses were the most salient features and a small blacksmith shop near the end of the street was labeled “Garage.” We mentally classed “Sweet Auburn” with Chinese Camp and following the road leading out of the place began the ascent of an exceedingly steep hill.

We were not destined to pass old Auburn with so short an acquaintance, for something went wrong with the gearing of the car before we were half way up the hill and we returned perforce to the wretched little garage we had passed, never dreaming that at the crest of the hill was a fine, modern town with one of the best-equipped machine shops we saw outside of the cities. While the proprietor of the garage, who combined in his single person the function of consulting engineer and mechanical repairman, was endeavoring to diagnose our trouble, we learned from a bystander that there was another Auburn on the hilltop with an excellent hotel—welcome news, for apparently chances were strong for passing the night in the town. We found the newer section well built and attractive, with a handsome courthouse, an imposing high school, and a new bank building with tall, classic pillars that would hardly be out of place on Fifth Avenue. Best of all, we found a comfortable hotel, which did much to mitigate the disappointment of our enforced sojourn in the town.

Though the trouble with the car was trifling, much time was consumed by our garage expert in locating it and still more in dissuading him from making a three-days’ job of it by tearing the machine to pieces, which he evinced a lively desire to do. A threat to remove the car to the garage on the hill, however, proved efficacious and by the middle of the afternoon he pronounced the job complete. And here we may pause to remark that before we reached Tahoe we had more serious trouble with this miserable car, which we shall pass over for the double reason that a recital would vex us with harrowing memories and be of no interest to the reader. We only registered a silent, solemn vow with good St. Christopher, the patron saint of all travelers, that our next tour should be made in our own car and we fulfilled our vow a year later in the long jaunt to Portland and return covered by this book.

As it was too late in the day to continue our journey after the car was ready, we contented ourselves with driving about town. The hotel people especially urged us not to miss the view from a second hill which dominated the new town and upon which may be found the homes of Auburn’s Four Hundred. A truly magnificent outlook greeted us from this hillcrest—a far-reaching panorama of the canyon of the American River, intersected by the gleaming stream more than a thousand feet beneath. On either side of the river we beheld range upon range of wooded hills stretching away to the blue haze of the horizon, the rugged wall of the Sierras looming dimly in the far distance. From our point of vantage, we could see the broad vale of the Sacramento to the westward, and, nearer at hand, the foothills intersected by the pleasant valleys with orchards and cultivated fields, dotted here and there with white ranch houses.

Beyond Auburn the road climbs steadily to Colfax, a few short pitches ranging from fifteen to twenty per cent. The surface was good and we were delighted by many fine vistas from the hilltops as we hastened along. At Applegate was a deserted hotel and “tent city,” said to be very popular resorts earlier in the summer. Colfax was the Illinois Town of mining times and still has many buildings dating back to the “days of gold.” The town was given its present name when the steam road came and it is now a center of considerable activity in railroading. Here we heard of a new California industry, for tobacco is grown in the vicinity and cigars made from the home-grown plant may be had at the local shops. There is also a famous vineyard and winery near the town, operated by an Italian colony similar to those of the Napa Valley. There is much beautiful scenery about Colfax. From the nearby summits across long reaches of forest-clad hills, one may see on one hand the mighty ranks of the snow-clad Sierras and on the other the dim outlines of the Coast Range. On exceptionally clear days, they told us, the shining cone of Shasta may be seen, though it is more than one hundred and fifty miles away.

Out of Colfax we continue to climb steadily and soon come upon reminders of the days when this was one of the greatest gold-producing sections of California. The hillsides everywhere show the scars of old-time placer mining. Millions of the precious metal were produced here in the few years following ’49, but operations have long since ceased and the deserted villages are fast falling into ruin. Dutch Flat and Gold Run, now stations on the Southern Pacific, could no doubt have furnished Bret Harte with characters and incidents quite as varied and picturesque as Angel’s Camp or Sonora had his wanderings brought him hither. For the disappearance of the good old golden days, the natives console themselves in this fashion, quoting advertising literature issued by Placer County: “In days gone by the gold mining industry made this section famous. To-day the golden fruit brings it wealth and renown.” And it also holds forth the hope that scientific mining methods may yet find “much gold in the old river beds and seams of gold-bearing rock.”

From Dutch Flat to Emigrant Gap, perhaps a dozen miles, the road climbs continually, winding through pine forests that crowd closely on either hand. Here is one of the wildest sections of the Sierras accessible to motor cars, and the weird beauty culminates at Emigrant Gap, a great natural gash in the Sierras which in early days gave its name to the road by which the great majority of overland emigrants entered California. Near this point, a little distance to the right of the road and some two thousand feet beneath, lies Bear Valley, one of the loveliest vales of the Sierras—in early summer an emerald green meadow—lying between Yuba River and Bear Creek, shut in on every hand by tree-clad slopes. From Emigrant Gap to the summit of the divide, a distance of twenty-seven miles, the road mounts steadily through the pines, winding around abrupt turns and climbing heavy grades—the last pitch rising to thirty per cent, according to our road book, though we doubt if it is really so steep. Crystal Lake and Lake Van Orten are passed on the way, two blue mountain tarns lying far below on the right-hand side of the road. From the summit, at an elevation of a little over seven thousand feet, we have a wonderful view both eastward and westward. Behind us the rugged hills through which we have wended our way slope gently to the Sacramento Valley—so gently that in the one hundred miles since leaving the plain we have risen only a mile and a half. Before us is the sharper fall of the eastern slope and far beneath, in a setting of green sward and stately pines, the placid blue waters of Donner Lake, beautiful despite the tragic associations which come unbidden to our minds.

The Donner party of thirty-one people set out from Illinois in April, 1846, and after almost unbelievable hardships, which caused the death of many of them, arrived in the vicinity of Truckee in October. Here they were overtaken by a terrific snowstorm that made farther progress impossible and they camped on the shores of Donner Lake until the following February. Many other emigrants had joined the party on the way and in spite of the numerous deaths while enroute, eighty-three were snowed in at this camp. Forty-nine of these perished before relief arrived and only eighteen finally survived to reach California. The first crossing by emigrants over this route was made in 1844 and the fate of the Donner party was due to being caught by the early winter rather than the difficulties of the road. Snow fell during that winter to the depth of twenty-two feet, as proven by a stump of a tree cut by the emigrants; and a fall of from ten to twenty feet is not uncommon even now in this vicinity.

Crossing the mountains, one is appalled by the thought of the difficulties encountered by the pioneer who had neither road nor signboard, but must make his way over rugged hills and deep valleys, across wide rivers, and through virgin forests with only a dimly blazed trail to guide him—and even this was often wanting. If a motor trip across the continent even now is not without its difficulties and discomforts, what hardships must the pioneers with the ox-drawn wagons have endured in that far-off day when neither railway nor wagon road entered the savage wilderness and the only inhabitants were hostile Indians and wild beasts.

ACROSS LAKE TAHOE

From painting by H.H. Bagg

The descent from the summit of the divide to Truckee is gradual, some twelve hundred feet in nine miles, though there are a few short, steep grades of from fifteen to twenty per cent, according to our authority. It was dark when we reached Truckee, but as there was no chance of going astray on the road to Tahoe Tavern, we determined to proceed. The road for the entire distance of fifteen miles closely follows the Truckee River, a swift, shallow stream fed from the limpid waters of Lake Tahoe. It was a glorious moonlight night and the gleaming river, the jagged hills on either hand, and the dark pine forests, all combined to make a wild but entrancingly beautiful effect. As we later saw the Truckee Canyon by daylight, we have every reason to be glad that we traversed it by moonlight as well.

Tahoe Tavern, with its myriad lights, was a welcome sight, none the less, after an exceedingly strenuous trip, the personal details of which I have forborne to inflict upon the reader. We were given rooms in the new annex, a frame-and-shingle building, and were delighted to find that our windows opened upon the moonlit lake. The mountain tops on the opposite shore were shrouded in heavy clouds through which the moon struggled at intervals, transmuting the clear, still surface of the lake from a dark, dull mirror to a softly lighted sheet of water with a path of gleaming silver running across it. Directly a thunder storm broke over the eastern shore—very uncommon in summer, we were told—and we had the spectacle of clouds and lake lighted weirdly by flashes of lightning. The thunder rolling among the peaks and across the water brought vividly to our minds Byron’s description of a thunderstorm on Lake Geneva in the Alps. For a short time it seemed as if “every mountain peak had found a tongue,” but the storm died away without crossing the lake.

We may as well admit that we failed to carry out our resolution to see sunrise on the lake, for we did not waken until the sun was shining broadly into our window, to which we hastened for a first impression of Tahoe by daylight. We beheld a smooth, steel-blue sheet of water with a sharply defined mountain range in the distance—no suggestion of the color miracle we had heard so much about; we learned that you must see Tahoe from many viewpoints and at many periods of the day to know a few of the myriad phases of its beauty.

Tahoe Tavern, a huge, brown, rambling building in a fine grove of pines, fronts directly on a little bay and commands a glorious outlook of lake and distant mountains. It is a delightfully retired and quiet place, ideal for rest and recuperation, while the surrounding country is unmatched in scenic attractions for those inclined to exploration, whether by steamer, motor, on horseback, or afoot. We found the service and the cuisine equal to the best resort hotels in California—and that is saying a great deal, since California in this particular leads the world. The Tavern’s popularity is evidenced by the fact that the main building, capable of accommodating several hundred guests, has been supplemented by the large annex and even then in season it is well to engage rooms in advance of arrival. Here we found a quiet yet exhilarating spot, the toil and tumult of the busy world shut out by impregnable mountain barriers, where one may repose and commune with nature in her grandest and most enchanting aspects.

After making the acquaintance of the friendly chipmunks about the inn—which have so far overcome their natural timidity as to take morsels from your fingers or even to rifle your pockets in search of peanuts—and laughing at the antics of the blue jays, almost as fearless, we decided to board the excursion steamer, which makes a daily round of the lake. Once out from the shore and well started on our southward journey, we began to realize something of the wonderful colorings that no one who has seen Tahoe can ever forget. About us the water was of the deepest, clearest, ultra-marine blue, shading by many gradations into emerald green near the shores. The colors were more intense than we had ever seen before in any body of water and cannot be entirely due to great depth, for though the bottom of Tahoe in places is nearly two thousand feet below the surface, the hue is deeper than that of the ocean. It is more like liquid, transparent lapis-lazuli, if we may imagine such a thing, than anything else I can think of. No doubt the depth of the water and the deep azure of the skies are the chief elements in producing this glorious effect. Yet, for all its blueness, we could see the bottom of the lake as we steamed along—indeed, they told us that only in the deepest places is the bottom invisible on clear, still days.

We followed the coast at a little distance, stopping at the different stations, chiefly camps and resorts of various degrees. Most of these are along the west side of the lake between Tahoe and Tallac, and scattered between them are many summer villas, chiefly of San Francisco people. This part of the shore is the most picturesque, being well wooded, while much of the eastern side is lined with barren and rocky mountains. At Rubicon Point, mighty cliffs rise high above the lake and their sheer walls extend far beneath the water that laves their base. Here is the deepest, bluest water that we cross, and they tell us one of the best fishing spots. Passing from the ultramarine deeps of the Rubicon Point, we round a sharply jutting promontory and glide into the jade-green waters of Emerald Bay, a long, oval-shaped inlet at the southern end of the lake. Surely, it is rightly named, for here green predominates, from the steep sides of the encircling hills to the very center of the shallow bay. At the upper end of the bay, rising almost sheer from the green water, is a rocky, scantily-wooded island where for many years an eccentric Englishman made his home. Nearly opposite on the shore is Emerald Bay Camp, perhaps the most popular of the many permanent camps around the lake. At Tallac the steamer stops for an hour to give opportunity for luncheon at the huge wooden hotel built many years ago by the late “Lucky” Baldwin. It stands in a grove of splendid pines and on a site in some ways superior to that of the tavern. Certainly the surrounding country is more picturesque and has more to interest the tourist. Just over the hills is the beautiful Fallen Leaf Lake and there are several other jewel-like tarns set in the hills a little to the west, while Cascade Lake and Emerald Bay are within walking distance. During luncheon one of our party expressed disappointment that the coloring of the lake hardly measured up to expectations formed from the enthusiastic descriptions of guidebooks and railroad literature.

“You can never see the color beauties of a lake at their best from a boat,” I declared. “We once had the opportunity of making the Great Glen trip by steamer and a year later of following these splendid Scotch lakes with our car; the effects of color and light which we saw on the latter trip were indescribably the more glorious.”

“Then let’s abandon the boat and hire a car for the return trip to the Tavern,”—a proposition to which all agreed. The car, a good one, was easily secured and we were soon away on what has been described as the most beautiful twenty-five mile drive in the world—a true claim so far as we know; the Columbia River Boulevard or Crater Lake road may rival it for scenic beauty, though these are perhaps too different for fair comparison.

The day was perfect, crystal clear except for a few white clouds drifting lazily across the sky or resting on the summits of the mountains beyond the lake; a day which our driver, an agreeable and intelligent young fellow, declared ideal for seeing Tahoe at its best. For a few miles out of Tallac we ran through a pine forest, catching fugitive glimpses of the blue water through the stately trunks. As we ascended the ridge overlooking Emerald Bay, exclamations of delight were frequent and enthusiastic as the magnificent panorama gradually unfolded to our view. The climax was reached when our driver paused at the summit of the ridge, where the whole of Tahoe spread out before us. Just beneath on one hand lay Emerald Bay; on the other gleamed Cascade Lake—a perfect gem in glorious setting of rock and tree. And the glory of color that greeted our eyes! Exaggerated in descriptions? No mortal language ever conveyed a tithe of its iridescent beauty and never will. One of the ladies exclaimed, “It is like a great black opal,” and knowing her passion for that gem, we recognized the sincerity of her tribute. And, indeed, the comparison was not inapt. There were the elusive, changeful greens and blues, the dark purples, and the strange, uncertain play of light and color that characterizes that mysterious gem. Near the shore line the greens predominated, reaching the deepest intensity in Emerald Bay, just below. Passing through many variations of color, the greens merged into the deep blues and farther out in the lake purple hues seemed to prevail. Along the opposite shore ran the rugged mountain range, the summits touched by cloud-masses which held forth the slightest threat of a summer shower—and, indeed, it came just before we reached the tavern. Overhead the sky was of the deepest azure and clear save for a few tiny white clouds mirrored in the gloriously tinted water. Altogether, the scene was a combination of transcendent color with a setting of rugged yet beautiful country that we have never seen equalled elsewhere and which we have no words to fittingly describe. Even the master artist fails here, since he can but express one mood of the lake—while it has a thousand every day. We have seen the Scotch, Italian and English lakes; we sailed the length of George and Champlain; we admired the mountain glories of Yellowstone Lake; we viewed Klamath and Crater Lakes from mountain heights, but none of them matched the wonderful color variations of Tahoe.

But we are on our way again, descending and climbing long grades which pass through pine forests and come out on headlands from which we gain new and entrancing views of lake and mountains. The road was completed only recently, but it is good in the main, though there are steep pitches and some rough and dusty stretches. At times it takes us out of sight of the lake, but we are compensated by wild and rugged scenery—towering crags and massive walls of gray stone—rising above us on every hand. The road must have presented considerable engineering difficulties; our driver points out a place where a mighty rock of a thousand tons or more was blasted to fragments to clear the way. Far above us on the mountain crests we see gleaming patches of snow which the late summer sun has not been able to dispel. We cross clear mountain streams and wind through groves of pine and spruce. Often as we climb or descend the long grades we come upon new vistas of the lake and mountains and occasionally we ask for a moment’s delay to admire some especially beautiful scene. Then we descend almost to the level of the water, which we see flashing through stately trunks or rippling upon clear, pebbly beaches. We pass various resorts, each surrounded by pines and commanding a beautiful view of the lake. As we approach the Tavern the summer shower that has been threatening begins and to the color glories of sky and lake are added the diamond-like brilliance of the big drops, for the sun is unobscured by the clouds. Beyond a stretch of smooth water, dimmed to dull silver by the blue-gray vapor hanging over it, a rainbow hovers in front of the dim outlines of the distant hills. It was a fitting climax to the most inspiring drive in the many thousands of miles covered by our wanderings.

We spent the remainder of the afternoon and the evening about the Tavern. Especially we admired the casino with its arcade fronting directly on the lake; here amusements of every description tempt the guest who finds time heavy on his hands, but we found more enjoyment in the beautiful scenes from the wide arches. Near by we found a photograph shop in charge of our friend, Valentine of Los Angeles, some of whose splendid pictures adorn this book. He had come to Tahoe before the roads were clear and told us of some desperate work in getting through, spending the night in his car while stuck in a snowdrift.

Circumstances made it impracticable that we remain longer at the Tavern and we left the next morning for Sacramento with the mental resolution that we would come again at our earliest opportunity. That opportunity came a little more than a year later. We again found ourselves in Sacramento on the beginning of the northern tour covered by this book. We had discarded our trouble-making hired car for our own machine, long, low, and heavy, so solidly built that not a single part gave way under the terribly severe conditions of the tour.

Out of Sacramento we followed the new state highway, then almost completed to Placerville. On the way to Folsom we saw much of gold mining under modern conditions. Monstrous floating steam dredges were eating their way through the fields and for miles had thrown up great ridges of stones and gravel from which the gold had been extracted by a process of washing. Something less than two million dollars annually is produced in Sacramento County, mainly by this process, and the cobblestones, after being crushed by powerful machinery, serve the very useful purpose of road-building. Beyond Folsom the highway winds through uninteresting hills covered with short brown grass and diversified with occasional oak trees. We kept a pretty steady upward trend as we sped toward the blue hill ranges, but there were no grades worth mentioning west of Placerville. Before we reached the town we entered the splendid pine forest which continues all the way to Tahoe.

Placerville has little to recall its old-time sobriquet of Hangtown, the name by which it figures in Bret Harte’s stories. Here, indeed, was the very storm center of the early gold furor—but five miles to the north is Coloma, where Marshall picked up the nugget that turned the eyes of the world to California in ’49. Over the very road which we were to pursue out of the town poured the living tide of gold seekers which spread out through all the surrounding country. To-day, however, Placerville depends little on mining; its narrow, crooked main street and a few ancient buildings are the only reminders of its old-time rough-and-tumble existence. It is a prosperous town of three thousand people and handsome homes, with well-kept lawns, are not uncommon. We also noted a splendid new courthouse of Spanish colonial design wrought in white marble, a fine example of the public spirit that prevails in even the more retired California communities. The site of the town is its greatest drawback. Wedged as it is in the bottom of a vast canyon, there is little possibility of regularity in streets and much work has been necessary to prepare sites for homes and public buildings. A certain picturesqueness and delightful informality compensates for all this and the visitor is sure to be pleased with the Placerville of to-day aside from its romantic history. Two fairly comfortable hotels invite the traveler to stop and make more intimate acquaintance with the town, which a recent writer declares is noted for its charming women—an attraction which it lacked in its romantic mining days.

Beyond Placerville the road climbs steadily, winding through the giant hills and finally crossing the American River, which we followed for many miles—now far above with the green stream gleaming through the pines and again coursing along its very banks. There are many deciduous trees among the evergreens on these hills and the autumn coloring lent a striking variation to the somber green of the pines. We had never before realized that there were so many species besides conifers on the California mountains. Maples and aspens were turning yellow and crimson and many species of vines and creepers lent brilliant color dashes to the scene. There was much indeed to compensate for the absence of the flowers which bloom in profusion earlier in the season. We passed several comfortable-looking inns and resorts whose names—Sportsman’s Hall, for instance—indicated retreats for hunters and fishermen.

Georgetown, some forty miles above Placerville, is the only town worthy of the name between the latter place and Tahoe. Beyond here we began the final ascent to the summit of the divide over a road that winds upwards in long loops with grades as high as twenty-five per cent. There were many fine vistas of hill and valley, rich in autumn colorings that brightened the green of the pines and blended into the pale lavender haze that shrouded the distant hills. From the summit, at an altitude of seventy-four hundred feet, we had a vast panorama of lake, forest, and mountain—but I might be accused of monotonous repetition were I to endeavor to describe even a few of the scenes that enchanted us. Every hilltop, every bend in the road, and every opening through the forests that lined our way presented views which, taken alone, might well delight the beholder for hours—only their frequent recurrence tended to make them almost commonplace to us.

CAVE ROCK, LAKE TAHOE

From photo by Putnam & Valentine, Los Angeles, Cal.

The descent to the lake is somewhat steeper than the western slope, but the road is wide with broad turns and we had no trouble in passing a big yellow car that was rushing the grade with wide-open “cut-out” in a crazy endeavor to get as far as possible on “high.” Coming down to Myers, a little supply station at the foot of the grade, we learned that the Tavern and many other resorts were already closed and decided to pass the night at Glenbrook, about midway on the eastern shore of the lake. For a dozen miles after leaving Myers, our road ran alternately through forests and green meadows—the meadows about Tahoe remain green the summer through—finally coming to the lake shore, which we followed closely for the twenty miles to Glenbrook. Most of the way the road runs only a few feet above the water level and we had many glorious vistas differing from anything we had yet seen. In the low afternoon sun the color had largely vanished and we saw only a sheet of gleaming silver edged with clearest crystal, which made the pebbly bottom plainly visible for some distance from the shore. Here an emerald meadow with sleek-looking cattle—there are many cattle in the Tahoe region—lay between us and the shining water; again it gleamed through the trunks of stately pines. For a little while it was lost to view as we turned into the forest which crowded closely to the roadside, only to come back in a moment to a new view—each one different and seemingly more entrancing than the last, culminating in the wonderful spectacle from Cave Rock. This is a bold promontory, pierced beneath by the caves that give its name, rising perhaps one hundred feet above the water and affording a view of almost the entire lake and the encircling mountains. On the western side the mountains throw their serrated peaks against the sky, while to the far north they showed dimly through a thin blue haze. The lake seemed like a great sapphire shot with gold from the declining sun—altogether a different aspect in color, light and shadow from anything we had witnessed before. We paused awhile to admire the scene along with several other wayfarers—pedestrians, cyclists, and motorists who were alike attracted by the glorious spectacle.

Two or three miles farther brought us to Glenbrook, a quiet nook at the foot of mighty hills, pine-clad to the very summits. The hotel is a large but unpretentious structure directly by the roadside and fronting on the lake. In connection with the inn is a group of rustic cottages, one of which was assigned to us. It had a new bathroom adjoining and there was a little sheet-iron stove with fuel all laid for a fire—which almost proved a “life-saver” in the sharp, frosty air of the following morning. The cottage stood directly on the lake shore and afforded a magnificent view of the sunset, which I wish I were able to adequately describe. A sea of fire glowed before us as the sun went down behind the mountains, which were dimmed by the twilight shadows. Soon the shadows gave place to a thin amethyst haze which brought out sharply against the western sky the contour of every peak and pinnacle. The amethyst deepened to purple, followed by a crimson afterglow which, with momentary color variations, continued for nearly an hour; then the light gradually faded from the sky and the lake took on an almost ebony hue—a dark, splendid mirror for the starlit heavens.

The excellent dinner menu of the inn was a surprise; we hardly expected it in such a remote place. They told us that the inn maintains its own gardens and dairy, and the steamer brings supplies daily. The inn keeps open only during the season, which usually extends from May to October, but there is some one in charge the year round and no one who comes seeking accommodations is ever turned away. Though completely isolated by deep snows from all land communication, the steamer never fails, since the lake does not freeze, even in the periods of below-zero weather. We found the big lounging room, with its huge chimney and crackling log fire, a very comfortable and cheery place to pass the evening and could easily see how anyone seeking rest and quiet might elect to sojourn many days at Glenbrook. But Glenbrook was not always so delightfully quiet and rural. Years ago, back in the early eighties, it was a good-sized town with a huge saw mill that converted much of the forest about the lake into lumber. There are still hundreds of old piles that once supported the wharves, projecting out of the water of the little bay in front of the hotel—detracting much from the beauty of the scene.

We were astir in the morning, wondering what the aspect of our changeful lake might be in the dawning light; and sure enough, the change was there—a cold, steel blue sheet of water, rippling into silver in places. Near the shore all was quiet, not a wave lapping the beach as on the previous night. The mountains beyond the lake were silhouetted with startling distinctness against a silvery sky, and on many of the summits were flecks of snow that had outlasted the summer.

We had thought to go on to Reno by the way of Carson City, but we could not bring ourselves to leave the lake and so we decided to go by way of Truckee, even though we had previously covered the road. It proved a fortunate decision, for we saw another shifting of the wonderful Tahoe scenery—the morning coloring was different from that of the afternoon and evening. We had the good fortune to pick up an old inhabitant of Tahoe City whose car had broken down on one of the heavy grades and who told us much about the lake and the country around it. He had lived near Tahoe for more than thirty-five years and could remember the days of the prospectors and saw mills. Nearly all the timber about the lake is of new growth since the lumbering days. This accounts for the absence of large trees except in a few spots which escaped the lumberman’s ax. Yellow pines, firs, and cedars prevail, with occasional sugar pines and some deciduous varieties. It is, indeed, a pity that Tahoe and the surrounding hills were not set aside as a national park before so much of the country had passed into private hands.

A fairly good road has been constructed for nearly three quarters of the distance around the lake and a very indifferent wagon road from Tahoe City to Glenbrook completes the circuit. The latter we did not cover, being assured that it was very difficult if not impassable for motors. Plans are under way for a new road around the northern end of the lake, which will enable the motorist to encircle this wonderful body of water—a trip of about eighty miles—and will afford endless viewpoints covering scenes of unparalleled beauty. The whole of the road about the lake ought to be improved—widened and surfaced and some of the steeper grades and more dangerous turns eliminated. It might then be the “boulevard” that one enthusiastic writer characterizes it, even in its present condition, but in our own humble opinion it has a long way to go before it deserves such a title.

At the Tavern we reluctantly turned away from the lake—it seemed to us as if we could never weary of its changeful beauty—and for the next dozen miles we followed the course of the Truckee River, at no time being more than a few rods distant from it. It is a clear, swift stream with greenish color tones and was still of fair size, though at its lowest ebb. Our road at times ran directly alongside within a few feet of its banks; again a sharp pitch carried us some distance above it and afforded fine views of valley and river. None of the grades were long, but one or two are steep, exceeding twenty per cent. The railroad, a flimsy, narrow-gauge affair, closely parallels the river and wagon road, but it is kept running the year round and keeps the scanty winter population about Tahoe in touch with the world.

Truckee is a typical wild western village with rather more than its share of saloons. These are well patronized, for there is a large working population in and about the town. It is a railroad division; a saw mill near by employs eight hundred men and a large paper pulp factory nearly as many. All of which contribute to make it a lively place and its Chamber of Commerce has organized a winter Ice Carnival for the purpose of giving those Californians who live on the coast and in the great central valleys an opportunity of seeing what real winter is like and enjoying its sports. The carnival opens on Christmas Day and continues until the middle of March. A huge ice palace is devoted to skating and dancing, while tobogganing, skiing and sleighing are the outdoor amusements. They told us that so far the festival has proven a great success, attracting people from every part of the state.

Out of Truckee we ran for fifteen or twenty miles through a barren sagebrush country with only an occasional tumble-down abandoned ranch house to break the monotony of the scene. The road was fine, but it took a sudden turn for the worse when we entered the straggling yellow pine forest that covers the hill range between Truckee and Reno. It was rough and stony in spots and we climbed steadily for several miles. We saw some pretty scenery, however, for the mighty forest rose to the very summits of the rugged hills above us and followed the dark canyon below downward to the river’s edge. Beyond the summit we began the descent of Dog Canyon—whence its poetical designation we did not learn—the longest and steepest straight grade we encountered in several thousand miles of mountaineering. For seven miles or more it drops down the side of the canyon without a single turn, the grades ranging from six to twenty per cent, deep with dust and very rough in places, a trying descent on brakes and driver. We met a few cars scrambling wearily up with steaming radiators and growling gears, but what more excited our sympathies were several canvas-covered wagons drawn by reeking horses that seemed ready to drop in their tracks from exhaustion. At the foot of the grade just beyond the Nevada line, we came into the village of Verdi, directly on the river and evidently the destination of many of the pine logs we had seen along our road, for here was a large saw mill. Beyond Verdi we followed the Truckee, bordered by emerald green alfalfa fields just being mown. The yield was immense, indicating a rich, well-watered soil, but in the main the ranch houses were small and poor, with squalid surroundings. Nearer Reno, however, we noted some improvement and occasionally we passed a neat and prosperous-looking ranch house. Coming into the town we sought the Riverside Hotel, which is rightly named, for it stands directly on the banks of the Truckee. We had difficulty in getting satisfactory accommodations—court was in session and it was opening day of the races, with a consequent influx of litigants and sports. We learned later that Reno is always a busy town and advance hotel arrangements should not be neglected by prospective guests.