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Title: In Tamal Land
Author: Bingham, Helen
Language: English
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In Tamal Land
[Illustration: Approaching Marin's Shores.]
In Tamal Land
BY
HELEN BINGHAM
THE CALKINS PUBLISHING HOUSE
SAN FRANCISCO, U. S. A.
_Copyrighted, 1906_,
By Helen Bingham
_All Rights Reserved_
DEDICATION
To the chum of my childhood,
The friend of my youth,
And my kindred soul--
My Mother--
This volume is lovingly dedicated.
INTRODUCTION
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned,
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod
Spots that are sacred to thought and God.
--_Emerson._
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Approaching Marin's Shores Frontispiece
Title sketch 1
One of the Commodious Ferry-boats 1
The Ferry Landing 2
Main Street, Sausalito 3
Sausalito Residences 4
The Club House, Sausalito 5
The Son of the Renowned Captain 7
A Typical Roadway 8
A Reminder of Rhineland 9
A Hillside Road 10
Hillside Gardening 11
O'Connell's Seat 12
Daniel O'Connell 13
A Windblown Tree 14
Fissures of the Cliffs 15
Nearing the Point 16
Fishing Boats 17
The Derrick Wharf 19
Point Bonita Lighthouse 20
Overlooking the Fog 21
The First Fog Signal 22
Angel Island 23
The Departing Day 23
Mt. Tamalpais from Mill Valley 25
The Powerhouse 27
An Electric Train 27
A Relic of the Past 28
Mill Valley Depot 29
The Three Wells 30
The Cascade 30
The Old Mill 31
Like the Mikado's Realm 33
A Reminder of the Toriis 34
Some of the Quaint Lamps 35
The Dining-room at Miyajima 35
A Creek in Summer 36
In the Hayfield 36
"The Outdoor-Art Club" 37
What the Club is Trying to Prevent 38
The Mountain Train 39
Through the Redwoods 39
Turning the Innumerable Curves 40
From the Crest of Mt. Tamalpais 41
The Marine Observatory 43
The Tavern 43
The Bow-Knot 44
A Wireless Telegraphy Station 45
The Bolinas Stage 46
Bolinas Bay 46
A Glimpse of Bolinas 47
Flag Staff Inn 48
Sand Dunes 49
The Breakers 49
The Oil Well 50
Where Don Gregorio Died 50
Thad Welch's Cabin 51
Duxbury Reef 53
The Lone Tree 54
Thad Welch at Work 54
Among the Redwoods 55
Primal Solitudes 56
In the Canyon 57
Angel Island from the Mainland 58
The Tiburon Depot 59
"The Tropic Bird" 60
In the Cove 61
Belvedere 63
An Artistic Church 64
Unloading Codfish 65
Drying Codfish 66
San Quentin 67
Point San Quentin as seen from Mt. Tamalpais 68
Lagunitas, San Rafael's Water Supply 69
Trolling on the Lake 70
A Marin Landscape. (From the original by Thad Welch) 71
Mt. Tamalpais from Ross Valley 73
A Home in Ross Valley 74
A Shaded Avenue 75
Dress Parade, Hitchcock Military Academy 76
Theological Seminary, San Anselmo 77
Dominican Convent 77
Court House, San Rafael 78
Escalle Vineyard and Winery 79
"Fairhills" 81
Fourth Street, San Rafael 82
Entrance to Hotel Rafael 83
Hotel Rafael 83
The Late Owner of the Olompali 84
The Last of the Race 85
A Wood Interior 87
Summer in the Redwoods 87
A Charming Drive 88
Browsing 89
A Characteristic Stream 90
Relics from a Shell Mound 91
Haying Time 92
Apple Picking in Marin 93
Cheese Industry 95
Young Heron 96
On the Marsh 97
R. H. Hotaling's Residence on "Sleepy Hollow Ranch" 98
The Taxidermist of Marin 99
A Quail's Nest 100
A Humming Bird's Nest 101
Little Songsters 101
A Sportsman 102
Near to Nature's Heart 103
A Bend in the Road 105
One of the Sparkling Lakes 106
Shafter Lake 107
On the Shore of Shafter Lake 108
Entering Bear Valley 109
The Country Club 109
Among the Ferns 110
At the Trough 111
Nearing Tomales Bay 113
Tomales Bay 114
Church of the Assumption, Tomales 115
Feeding Time 116
Chicken Ranches in Marin 117
Defacing Nature 119
Dairying on the Edge of the Pacific 120
In the Pasture 121
Going Home 122
A Marin Ranch 123
Sir Francis Drake 125
A Bay of Solitude 126
Drake's Bay 127
A Bit of Rocky Shore 128
Marin Cows 129
Drake's Cross 131
A Rugged Coast Line 132
Point Reyes 133
Point Reyes Life Saving Station 134
Plowing in October 135
"The Warrior Queen" 137
The Lighthouse 138
Cloud-Hosts 138
Where the Waves Break 139
The Glory of the Dying Day 140
In Tamal Land
To the average tourist there are few states in the Union which offer
more attractions than California.
Though its mild climate, fertile valleys, and scenic beauties
are counted among its chief assets, still they are not its sole
possessions, for, linked to the present great commercial activity of
the Pacific Coast is a chain of picturesque events, clustered about its
birth and infancy, which lends to the whole a peculiar charm, giving it
a distinct individuality.
While the footsteps of the Spaniards grow fainter and fainter as
they glide away into the corridors of time, and their traces become
gradually assimilated by the progressive and oft-times aggressive
Yankee, nevertheless the echoes from that former non-progressive
splendor float back to us, and history re-animates the old adobes,
breathing into a few secluded valleys the spirit of the past.
[Illustration: One of the Commodious Ferry Boats.]
As the seat of historic interest, Monterey has received more homage
than any other county on the Slope. Tourists flock to pay court to
her old landmarks, writers eagerly pore over her time-worn archives,
and the wielders of the brush have congregated in such numbers as to
form an artists' colony. Though Monterey is undoubtedly justified in
carrying off the palm for her many attractions, yet it is but fair
that she should divide the honors of the past with her sister counties,
being content to reign as Sovereign of the Coast.
Skirting the Northern end of San Francisco Bay is one of the smallest
and most picturesque counties of California.
[Illustration: The Ferry Landing.]
As a tiny gem in a coronet appears insignificant when contrasted with
the other stones in point of size, but when viewed alone is admired for
the diversity of its coloring and rare quality, so Marin, when measured
by acres, appears insignificant, but when estimated by the beauty and
diversity of its scenery stands unique, apart, alone.
As we approach Marin's shores, after a half hour's ride across the Bay
on a commodious modern ferry-boat, our first thought on nearing the
land is its remarkable similarity to an Italian settlement. For surely
this town, situated on the steep hillside, is a counterpart of many an
Italian hamlet, which, clinging to some abrupt cliff or bluff, seems to
defy nature by its occupancy.
The clear blue of the California sky overhead but added to the
illusion, although upon closer approach it was gradually dispelled by
the modern American houses in place of quaint Italian structures.
Leaving the Depot we passed an attractive little park, well kept and
gay with flowers, and a walk of a few moments brought us to the most
historic part of Sausalito.
Though not in the section designated "old Sausalito," still it is
the oldest in memories, for it was here that John Read, the first
English-speaking settler in the County, came in 1826, erecting near
the beach a crude board house. While waiting for a land grant from the
Mexican Government, Read lived here.
[Illustration: Main Street, Sausalito.]
Being of an ingenious turn of mind and having a practical nautical
knowledge, Read set about constructing a sail boat, which he
subsequently plied between Sausalito and San Francisco, carrying
passengers. This was the first ferry boat on the Bay and when we
contrast the little sailboat making its periodical trips across a
solitary Bay with the present ferry craft, passing on their route
ships from every quarter of the globe, a mere three score of years
seems short for such a change, and proves what can be accomplished by
Anglo-Saxon energy and enterprise.
[Illustration: Sausalito Residences.]
Upon receiving his grant for the Rancho Corte Madera del Presidio,
lying north of Sausalito, Mr. Read moved there in 1834.
A few hundred yards back from the beach, in what is now called
"Wildwood Glen," was the first adobe house built in Sausalito. Only
a few stones now mark the spot on which it stood, and a solitary
pear-tree, gnarled and knotted with age stands a living witness of
peace and plenty and decay. For it was in the bountiful days preceding
the great influx into California by the Americans that Captain William
Antonio Richardson, an Englishman but lately arrived on a whaling
vessel from "the Downs," made application, and was given a grant to the
Sausalito Rancho by the Mexican Government. He soon began building his
adobe house and with the aid of the Indians it was rapidly completed.
In the spring of 1836 he brought his beautiful young wife, formerly the
Senorita Maria Antonia Martinez, to their new abode.
[Illustration: The Club House, Sausalito.]
The Senora Maria Antonio was the daughter of Ygnacio Martinez, for whom
the present town of that name in Contra Costa County was called.
[Illustration: The Son of the Renowned Captain.]
Of all the dreams of happiness and love that filled the minds of the
youthful pair on that fair spring morning, as in a small boat they
were rowed across the Bay, by Indians, to their new home, we can not
judge, but I am sure their dreams, however fond, were realized, for it
is recorded somewhere that joy and peace reigned supreme in the little
adobe.
However this may be, a young orchard was set out, cattle were bought
and tended and the Senora's clever hands soon had the walls laden with
the sweetest of Castilian roses. A stream flowed by the house on its
way to the Bay, and on many a bright morning the Indian women of the
household might be seen bending low over the stones washing the family
linen. The stream has long since disappeared, as also the remnant of
the race that washed in its waters--one through an unaccountable law
of nature, the other through the rapacious greed and oppression of the
Anglo-Saxon race.
[Illustration: A Typical Roadway.]
Owing to the abundance of pure, fresh water found on the Sausalito
Rancho it was shipped to Yerba Buena and the Presidio. The water was
conducted by spouts to the beach, thence into a tank on a scow, which
conveyed it across the Bay. This mode of supplying San Francisco with
water lasted for some time, until with the increase of population this
primitive means was abandoned.
A tule boat operated by Indians regularly crossed the Bay for the mail,
many of the Indians evincing considerable skill in navigation under the
tutelage of their able master.
Standing beside a heap of stones--historic stones because the sole
remnant of this abode of the past--my glance wandered to the blue water
of the Bay which laps the edge of the glen and stretches over to the
distant hills which descend in gentle undulations to this beautiful
shimmering sheet of blue. And this Bay, too, speaks of the second
settler of Marin, for it bears his name.
As my glance now fell on the enchanting little glen with its tangled
woodland and steep declivities, and then to the fair stretches of land
that lay beyond, a sigh of sadness escaped from me unawares. I thought
how all this lovely region, this Rancho Sausalito, comprising 19,500
acres, as varied and beautiful as ever nature put her seal to, this
land, which rightfully belonged to Richardson and his descendants,
had been appropriated by others through pretext of law and what not,
until the heirs of the pioneer can call but a small building lot their
own. Thus we ever find that "man's inhumanity to man makes countless
thousands mourn."
[Illustration: A Reminder of Rhineland.]
But the son of the renowned Captain, a hale, hearty old gentleman, with
a pleasant Spanish accent, speaks with calm equanimity of their loss of
fortune, showing not a vestige of ill-will toward the transgressors,
and practicing in full the true Christian spirit so often lauded but
rarely seen.
"Sometimes, it is true, it makes me sad," he once replied, in answer to
my queries, "to think of all the Rancho being gone. As a boy I used to
ride, chasing the cattle, climbing the steep mountain sides followed
by our vaqueros ... and how wild it was then and so beautiful--so
beautiful!" Thus the heir to all these acres would extol their beauty
without more reproach than that it sometimes made him sad.
Ascending the glen by a winding country road, shadowed by trees and
shrubs, it was not long before we reached a small, low shingled cottage
nestled deep in the shade of tall bays and buckeyes. A neat sign over
the door bearing the inscription "O'Connell Glen," met our gaze, and
then we knew that this little cottage, with its wealth of solitude and
humble exterior, was the former home of the poet, Daniel O'Connell.
For it was in this rural retreat that O'Connell, with his family, spent
many busy, imaginative years.
[Illustration: A Hillside Road.]
A bohemian of the truest kind, he delighted in what Marin had to offer.
With a stout stick, and accompanied by his daughters, he would often
be seen sallying forth from his rustic lodge to tramp over hills and
through canyons, exploring the apparently inaccessible, viewing and
absorbing the wondrous beauty of woodland fastnesses, airy heights,
and rugged cliffs. Feeling the very pulse of nature, his poems were
the embodiment of all he had seen and felt, delighting the reader with
their subtle charm and graceful imagery, which were peculiarly the
author's own.
Leaving his favorite retreat and last abode, for it was here in
1899 that the poet breathed his last, a short walk around the bend
of the hill brought us to another spot, sacred to the memory of the
poet. This is the O'Connell monument which, as the inscription tells
us, was erected by his sorrowing friends. The monument is in the
form of a granite seat, some fifteen feet in length, fashioned in a
graceful, curving crescent. Placed on the bank above the roadway, it is
surrounded by great masses of bright-colored flowers, and approached by
a few stone steps. The floor is of small, inlaid stones, in the center
of which a three-leaf Shamrock proclaims the nationality of the poet.
[Illustration: Hillside Gardening.]
Besides the name he made for himself, O'Connell came of illustrious
ancestors, being the son of a distinguished lawyer, Charles O'Connell,
and grand-nephew of the great Irish patriot, Daniel O'Connell.
[Illustration: O'Connell's Seat.]
On the back of the seat are inscribed these lines, written by the
poet but ten days before his fatal illness, and prophetic of the long
journey he was so soon to take, where, away from the cares and turmoil
of this world, his soul could solve its remaining problems:
I have a Castle of Silence, flanked by a lofty keep,
And across the drawbridge lieth the lovely chamber of sleep;
Its walls are draped in legends woven in threads of gold.
Legends beloved in dreamland, in the tranquil days of old.
Here lies the Princess sleeping in the palace, solemn and
still,
And knight and countess slumber; and even the noisy rill
That flowed by the ancient tower, has passed on its way to
the sea,
And the deer are asleep in the forest, and the birds are
asleep in the tree.
And I in my Castle of Silence, in my chamber of sleep, lie
down.
Like the far-off murmur of forests come the turbulent echoes
of town.
And the wrangling tongues about me have now no power to keep
My soul from the solace exceeding the blessed Nirvana of
sleep.
Lower the portcullis softly, sentries, placed on the wall;
Let shadows of quiet and silence on all my palace fall;
Softly draw the curtains.... Let the world labor and weep--
My soul is safe environed by the walls of my chamber of
sleep.
Turning from these verses to rest on the granite seat, we were
confronted with a view of surpassing loveliness. Our attention had been
so engrossed in examining this monument to genius that, until then, we
had failed to perceive the commanding situation it held.
Below us stretched the peaceful waters of the Bay; on the left Angel
Island and the Berkeley hills, with old Diablo dimly seen in the
distance; in front, Alcatraz with its warlike aspect lay basking in
the sun; while to the right the City, with its many hills and pall
of smoke, could be plainly discerned. Truly a fitting spot for this
memorial to genius.
[Illustration: Daniel O'Connell.]
Another attractive feature of Sausalito, besides its superb marine
view, is its abundance of flowers. These not only grow in thick
profusion in the quaint hillside gardens, but are planted beside
the roadways, covering many an erstwhile bare and unsightly bank
with trailing vines, gay nasturtiums and bright geraniums. There is
something in the spirit of this hillside gardening, this planting of
sweet blossoms for the public at large, that is very appealing in these
days of monopolistic greed, when everything that is worth while has a
fence around it. Thus it is refreshing to find a little spot in this
dollar-mad America where the citizens disinterestedly beautify the
public streets for the enjoyment of each passer-by.
[Illustration: A Wind-Blown Tree.]
Owing to the hilly surface of Sausalito, driving is rather a precarious
enjoyment, but there is one drive which, with its superb marine vistas,
amply compensates for the apparent lack of level roads. With the
intention of taking this drive we procured a team and were soon driven
rapidly along the boulevard skirting the water front, past the San
Francisco Yacht Club, with its medley of white sailboats and smaller
craft bobbing about in the water, and then through old Sausalito
nestled in the gulch. Thence ascending the hill, the road wound around
bend after bend with the Bay ever below us at a distance of a few
hundred feet.
Arriving at a small, shingled lodge beside a gate through which we
passed into the reservation, we soon came upon the Fort Baker Barracks
in the hollow of the hills. It seems as if Nature, in anticipation of
man's conflict with his brother man, had formed these hills on purpose
for a fortification, so well adapted do they seem for their present
use.
Beyond the Barracks, at the base of a cliff, we spied some small, white
buildings clustered on the rocks extending out into the water. This
proved to be Lime Point, and the buildings we were approaching belong
to the Government, constituting a lighthouse- and fog-signal station.
We found it to be one of the many smaller stations that are distributed
along the Coast. There is a diminutive white light, and a steam fog
whistle is kept ever ready to send out its note of warning at the
slightest approach of the milky vapor which is a terror to the seamen.
Lime Point is directly opposite Fort Point, the distance being but
seven-eighths of a mile, and forms the Northern point of Golden Gate
Strait. While the view from these rocks is expansive, still it could
not be called commanding, as the Point is too near the sea level to
give the height and majesty requisite for an enchanting ocean vista.
[Illustration: Fissures of the Cliffs.]
As a pass is required before one can go through the reservation we
retraced our steps to the Barracks and upon receiving the passport from
the Sergeant Major, proceeded on our way up the steep, winding road
which leads out of the Valley. Reaching the summit, the road continues
its circuitous route; now in sight of the Bay and City, and again in
among the bare, rolling hills.
While descending into a little valley we were stopped by a number of
heavily laden teams, lined up in the middle of the road. Before we
could question as to the delay, a volley of shots rang out, resounding
again and again in the silent canyons, and a flapping red flag near by
plainly denoted that the soldiers were engaged in target practice.
In reply to our query as to the length of time we should be required
to halt, a soldier on the team in front informed us that sometimes one
had to wait an hour or an hour and a half. Other teams having lined up
behind, a retreat was impossible, and the prospect of a long wait in
the hot sun was not very agreeable. We learned that a new barracks was
in the course of construction below, in the valley at the head of the
Rodeo Lagoon, and these teams were laden with provisions for the men
stationed there.
[Illustration: Nearing the Point.]
Just as we had composed ourselves for the inevitable, a brisk waving
of red flags was seen in the Valley, followed by the moving of the
cavalcade in front; and, much to our satisfaction, we soon left our
pessimistic informer far in the rear.
[Illustration: Fishing Boats.]
On the most southerly point of Marin a narrow rocky neck of land
extends some distance into the Ocean. At the base are jagged rocks
over which the sea surges ceaselessly, cutting arches and miniature
caves in the fissures of the cliffs. From this rocky headland, which
formerly was a menace and terror to navigators, now streams a steady
light, and the point erstwhile spelling destruction now proves a
blessing to vessels which are guided safely into port by the aid of its
welcome light. This is Point Bonita and the Bonita Light, which, as we
approached, stood out clear in the afternoon sun.
[Illustration: The Derrick Wharf.]
Stopping at the lighthouse keeper's dwelling, we proceeded on foot to
the Point, accompanied by the keeper. Pausing in the narrow pathway, he
drew our attention to a small derrick-wharf for the tender, at the base
of the steep cliff on which we stood. This he explained was where the
boat, which touches here three times a week, lands provisions, oil, and
fuel.
"But, how," I asked in astonishment as I gazed down the dizzy depth,
"do you get them up here?"
"Oh, that is very simply done," he responded; "we start up the engine
and they are hauled up the bluff on a tram."
Owing to the perilous windings of the path around an almost
perpendicular cliff a small tunnel has been cut through the solid rock.
As we emerged from this tunnel the Lighthouse confronted us only a few
yards away.
[Illustration: Point Bonita Lighthouse.]
The tower containing the light is a square, brick structure twenty-one
feet in height, situated at the edge of the Point at an elevation
of one hundred and twenty-four feet. The Bonita Light, although of
second-class rating, is so advantageously situated that its fixed,
white rays are visible seventeen miles at sea.
The first lighthouse was established here in 1855, the light being
placed in the picturesque old tower still standing higher up on an
adjoining promontory and now serving as a day signal. The location was
unsurpassed, they say, in clear weather; but when the fog rolled in it
was quickly seen that a great mistake had been made in elevating the
lamp, for often when the light was entirely obscured by a fog bank, the
bluff below would be quite clear, so in 1877 the light was removed to
its present location.
[Illustration: Overlooking the Fog.]
An old gun, now rusty, lying beside its gun-carriage on the bluff,
was the first fog signal established on the Pacific Coast by the
government. In foggy weather it was discharged every hour and a half
during day and night.
When we contrast the present steam sirens, blowing five blasts every
thirty-five seconds, with the former primitive means, we realize a
little what scientists and inventors have been doing these fifty years.
The genial keeper, who is a second cousin of the late Colonel Robert
G. Ingersoll, showed us every nook and cranny in the place, from the
boilers, the lamp, and its appurtenances down to the neat store-rooms
and paint lockers.
Though I have visited many fog-stations before, this one surpassed
all others in its perfect order and scrupulous cleanliness, reminding
one of a well regulated ship. So exactly was every corner and space
utilized, that, as Dickens once remarked of a steam-packet, "everything
was something else than what it pretended to be."
All the appliances of the Station are in duplicate. Thus, if one siren
becomes disabled, another immediately takes its place; so with the
boilers, etc.
Retracing our steps to the mainland, we noted on the edge of the cliff
near the keeper's dwelling the life-saving station whose crew do much
effective work about these jagged headlands. Bidding good-bye to the
keeper, we turned our backs on Bonita and started homeward. We had been
so engrossed with the Point and its environs as to be unconscious of
the flight of time, and, noting with surprise the waning afternoon, we
urged our horses to a brisk pace and sped rapidly along the elevated
roadway.
[Illustration: The First Fog Signal.]
The sun was slowly approaching the edge of the horizon, and Bonita,
still visible in the West, stood out a silhouette against a brilliant
sky. At its feet lay outstretched the gorgeously illumined sea; some
fleecy golden cloudlets, floating over the Gate, seemed a soft shower
of petals from the State's fair emblem; while the mellow light of the
departing day still rested lovingly on the loftiest hilltops, and over
on the city side occasional windows reflected his glory, as with a spot
of glistening gold. To the southward the blue misty tones of the Santa
Cruz Mountains began to merge into their robes of approaching night.
Suddenly out upon the still air rang a deep boom! boom! Angel Island
was rendering her last tribute to the god of day.
[Illustration: Angel Island.]
[Illustration: The Departing Day.]
Then there came to me those beautiful lines of our own poet, Lowell
Otus Reese:
A touch of night on the hill-tops gray;
A dusky hush on the quivering Bay;
A calm moon mounting the silent East--
White slave the day-god has released;
Small, scattered clouds
That seemed to wait
Like sheets of fire
O'er the Golden Gate.
And under Bonita, growing dim,
With a seeming pause on the ocean's rim,
Like a weary lab'rer, sinks the sun
To the booming crash of the sunset gun.
All over the long slopes grown with green,
With the white tents scattering in between,
The flickering camp-fires start to glow
In the groves of the fair Presidio;
While the solemn chord
Of the evening hymn
Rolls over the Bay
Through the twilight dim
As the flag comes down to an anthem grand,
The brave, old song of our native land,
And Angel Isle, when the song is done,
Booms out "Amen!" with its sunset gun.
Although Marin County was first opened up by the advent of the North
Pacific Coast Railroad in 1875, it was not until the transfer to the
North Shore that the road was operated in its present modern system.
With the exception of the extreme North and East where the trains are
run by steam, the County is traversed by well appointed electric trains
which combine easy riding with quick transit.
This was the first electric line in California to be operated by the
third rail system, and it has proved satisfactory in every detail.
Owing to the danger of contact with the third rail, the road is fenced
on both sides, and the rail is concealed at stations.
At the head of Richardson's Bay, and but a short distance from Mill
Valley, is situated the North Shore Powerhouse. Here the power,
which is transmitted from Colgate, over 150 miles away, is stored.
Should there be any accident and stoppage to the power, electricity
is generated at the Powerhouse by steam, which is always kept in
readiness.
As I gazed at the three switches, each in its separate vault (in order
to be kept fire-proof) it was difficult to realize that in the small
wires I beheld were centered power to operate trains, illuminate and
run machinery and countless other utilities.
[Illustration: Mt. Tamalpais From Mill Valley.]
As this, the greatest motive power in the world to-day, was long
unknown except as an element of destruction, until the man came who
harnessed the lightning and made it do man's work, so there are still
undoubtedly other forces of nature which but await the master mind to
discover their utility.
[Illustration: The Powerhouse.]
A short distance west of the Powerhouse, on a slightly elevated mound,
is an old orchard whose gnarled trees have sheltered for a generation
and more the yellow adobe walls of the first settler of Marin.
But the elements of nature with relentless fingers have played about
this relic of the past, until but a small vestige is left to remind us
of what has been.
[Illustration: An Electric Train.]
When a grant to the Corte Madera del Presidio Rancho was given to John
Read he began building his home, and in order to construct a large,
commodious adobe, he erected a sawmill in the vicinity, and there the
lumber for his home was whipsawed.
Thus, it is this mill, which is still standing in undisturbed repose
these many years, which gave the surrounding valley its name.
Read had barely finished his adobe when he died, and the place
subsequently passed into the hands of the boldest bandit of Marin.
The terror of the surrounding counties--whose very name sent a chill
even to the bravest heart--was Barnardino Garcia, otherwise called
"Three-fingered Jack." He possessed all the daring and bravery of a
dauntless marauder, and the anecdotes of his bloody adventures form
many a weird and ghostly tale when told by the flickering firelight of
a winter's night, sending the listener to bed inwardly quaking, with
eyes peering into dark corners.
[Illustration: A Relic of the Past.]
The most widely known of his crimes was committed shortly after the
raising of the Bear Flag at Sonoma, which proclaimed the Golden West to
be the Republic of California.
The Bear Flag party being short of ammunition and a rumor gaining
circulation to the effect that General Vallejo had a cache of powder
stored on the Sotoyome Rancho near the present town of Healdsburg, it
was decided to send men to procure some. Cowie and Fowler volunteered
to go, although the journey was known to be a perilous one; but the
need was great, and these pioneers considered it no risk.
[Illustration: Mill Valley Depot.]
They were warned, however, to avoid the way through Santa Rosa, and to
confine their paths to the hills out of the ken of Garcia and his band.
Whether the Americans failed to heed the warning, or whether Garcia's
men discovered them in the hills, will never be known. They were taken
prisoners, under a pledge that their lives would be spared, but were
finally murdered with great cruelty.
When Cowie and Fowler did not return to Sonoma within a reasonable
time, great anxiety was felt in the little garrison.
Finally a searching party was sent out, but it soon returned with news
of the murder.
The Bear Flag leaders swore revenge on the murderers, and eventually
captured a number of Garcia's band, although he himself escaped. A
fugitive from justice, he journeyed south, becoming lieutenant to the
famous desperado, Joaquin Murietta, only to be subsequently shot in
1853 by Captain Harry Love's Rangers. His hand of three fingers was
sent as a trophy to the commandant.
[Illustration: The Three Wells.]
Thus ended the career of this bold adventurer.
[Illustration: The Cascade.]
Though there are many towns in Marin which command a more expansive
vista, and offer by their marine situation greater diversity in
out-door sports, still Mill Valley, nestling at the base of Tamalpais,
has proved a delightful summer retreat and home center; for, dotted in
the wooded canyons, beside the streams, or in some sunny exposure may
be found many artistic dwellings which, while possessing the advantages
of the country, are within easy access of the city.
[Illustration: The Old Mill.]
The most notable among the attractive residences is the home of Mr.
George T. Marsh.
Stepping within the odd wooden gate, which reminds one of the "Toriis,"
or sacred gates of Nikko, the stranger feels that he has indeed touched
a fairy wand, and been transported to the heart of the Mikado's realm.
[Illustration: Like the Mikado's Realm.]
Liquid streams, spanned by fantastic miniature bridges on whose banks
dwarf shrubs of various kind abound; fish ponds and islands; quaint
metal lamps beside the roadway on their low posts, that are unique
by daylight and when lit add all the witchery and charm of the floral
isle; these and numerous other features of the Orient come unexpectedly
upon the enchanted visitor, until he forgets the busy commercial
activity of the outer world, and is in fancy again wandering in the
grand old dreamy groves of Miyajima.
Another spot deserving the attention of the visitor is the quaint
Club-House of the Out-Door Art Club. This Club has been organized by
the ladies of Mill Valley for the purpose of preserving the natural
beauties of the town and vicinity and staying, if possible, the hand
of those primitive beings who, with ruthless vandalism, cut down and
otherwise destroy the most prized of our rural possessions, our noble
trees.
Much credit is due these energetic ladies in their worthy endeavor
to teach those who have "eyes that see not" the wondrous beauties of
Nature.
Besides its own unique features, the chief attraction which draws to
this little burg tourists and travelers from all parts, as by a magnet,
is the fact that it is the starting point of the Mill Valley and Mt.
Tamalpais Scenic Railway.
Leaving the station, the mountain train winds through redwood groves,
beside streams and pools, passing on its route the Hotel Blithedale,
founded many years ago by Dr. Cushing as a sanitarium, so propitious to
health is this sheltered, sunny exposure.
[Illustration: A Reminder of the Toriis.]
[Illustration: Some of the Quaint Lamps.]
[Illustration: The Dining Room at Miyajima.]
The train is operated by a steam-traction engine which combines the
ordinary cog system with an additional contrivance appropriate for
turning curves. As the train gradually climbs in its serpentine route,
and chaparral takes the place of redwood, the country below begins to
unfold; towns appear in miniature, and hills which on close approach
have distinct characteristics now merge into one another, forming an
unbroken mass which stretches west to the Pacific, on whose sapphire
bosom may frequently be seen the dim outline of the Farallon Islands,
while to the southward Point San Pedro and the City are visible, and
San Francisco Bay with intricate windings can be seen to join San Pablo
and Suisun bays on the east.
[Illustration: A Creek in Summer.]
[Illustration: In the Hay Field.]
[Illustration: The Out-door Art Club.]
It requires many trips to fully appreciate and comprehend the marvelous
diversity of views spread before one, while the variety of superb
effects to be witnessed from this mountain cannot be found in a single
visit.
To watch the wonderful radiance of sunrise when Apollo mounts in his
chariot of fire above the Berkeley hills, or to see a billowy floor
of fog, outspread before one, obscuring the lower world and leaving
naught save this mountain peak unwrapped by the fog-mantle; and then to
witness the pale light of the moon marking a silver pathway on the Bay,
and casting grotesque shadows on the landscape; and these are but a few
of the beauties garnered here.
[Illustration: What the Club is Trying to Prevent.]
The road which is known as "the crookedest in the world," turns
innumerable sharp curves, finally twisting into a double bow-knot
and, extricating itself, continues winding its way up, stopping a few
moments at West Point, where passengers for Bolinas take the stage.
Arriving at the railroad's destination, the Tavern, the passengers
alight to luncheon in its well-appointed dining-room, or lounge on the
spacious veranda, enjoying at ease the superb views revealed below.
But if the traveller be something of a pedestrian he will take the
zigzag, cleated steps which lead from the Tavern to the top.
Here the San Francisco Examiner's Marine Observatory is located, whose
telescope is said to sight ships seventy miles at sea.
[Illustration: The Mountain Train.]
But this is not the only walk on the Mountain. Many trails wind
about its sides disclosing shady nooks, a delightful cool spring and
countless other surprises, which are easily reached owing to the
guidance of artistic little signs which appear at short distances
apart, while location rods are placed at intervals on the path circling
the Mountain, enabling the visitor to find the various points of
interest without any difficulty.
[Illustration: Through the Redwoods.]
A few hundred feet from the Tavern is located a Government Weather
Bureau, and in its proximity is to be placed the seismograph now being
made in Strasburg, Germany, by order of the Weather Bureau Department
in Washington. The instrument is said to be on a more elaborate plan
than any in this country except the one in Washington, D. C., of which
this will be a counterpart. Some time is required for its completion,
so, presumably it will not be installed and ready to receive
earthquakes until early next year.
[Illustration: Turning Innumerable Curves.]
Descending the mountain on the train to West Point, we alighted and
after lunching at the Inn, mounted the stage which was bound for
Bolinas.
The air on these mountain slopes is most exhilarating, and as we sped
along down the gradually descending roadway, the breath of azaleas was
wafted on the breeze from the canyons, while at each bend of the road
the salt zephyrs from the Ocean became more perceptible.
[Illustration: From the Crest of Mt. Tamalpais.]
Leaving the Monarch of Marin we soon came in sight of the white
sand-spit with Dipsea, the new resort on the beach, and the glorious
Pacific stretching thousands of miles beyond the horizon.
[Illustration: The Tavern.]
Alighting from the stage we embarked in a steam-launch which glided
rapidly across the Bolinas Lagoon. Steep, massive hills encircle the
Lagoon on the right, while on the left, becoming more apparent at each
glide of the launch, lies Bolinas, the town, and our destination.
[Illustration: The Marine Observatory.]
Owing to its small size and remote location we expected the usual
hardships which accrue from a country hotel and its numerous
incongruities; imagine our surprise therefore, when arriving at this
little town, which is a stranger as yet to railroads, to find a cozy
hostelry awaiting us.
Though unpretentious in appearance, the Flag Staff Inn proved as
orderly and neat as any of its English prototypes. Whether it was due
to the landlord's being a Briton or not, I can not say, but there was
undoubtedly an English atmosphere about the place, and if honest Mrs.
Lupin or Mark Tapley had issued from the porch to welcome us, I should
not have been in the least surprised.
West of the little settlement of Bolinas a neck of land extends for
a mile and a half out into the Ocean, the top forming a mesa. Owing
to the fogs abounding in this region, it is green almost the entire
year and makes splendid grazing, as in fact does all the land in the
vicinity.
[Illustration: The Bow-Knot.]
At the end of the mesa, some oil prospecting was being done, and at the
time of our visit there was one shaft sunk. Although there are numerous
deposits of oil to be found in and about these cliffs, the output thus
far has not exceeded a barrel a day. Yet who can tell what rich veins
may lie beneath this mesa.
On Duxbury Reef, a succession of small rocks extending farther out into
the ocean, there is said to be found at low tide gas escaping from the
rocks, which, being ignited occasionally by fishermen, does not become
extinguished until the tide rises.
[Illustration: A Wireless Telegraph Station.]
At the other extremity of the town is to me the most interesting
section of Bolinas, for it was here that the first settlement was
made. The name Bolinas--then spelled Baulinas--is believed by some to
signify stormy and untamed, while others accredit it to be the name of
an Indian girl.
[Illustration: The Bolinas Stage.]
Which is correct may never be ascertained. Either is probable; owing
to its situation "stormy" may well apply, and as the Tamal Indians
formerly inhabited this region, and in fact spread over the entire
County, the last theory is equally feasible. To my mind they are both
correct, for might it not have been named for an Indian maiden called
Bolinas, whose nature was as stormy and untamed as the tempests which
often surge about these headlands?
[Illustration: Bolinas Bay.]
This Rancho Bolinas first belonged to Rafael Garcia, who disposed of
the grant to his brother-in-law, Gregorio Briones, of whom tradition
says there were few so honest, upright and brave as this dignified son
of Spain, who died respected and beloved by all who knew him.
It was in the days before the "Gringo" came, when peace and plenty
reigned throughout this land, and hospitality was proverbial to every
household, that Gregorio Briones settled in Bolinas.
[Illustration: A Glimpse of Bolinas.]
To be a skillful horseman and expert vaquero was all that was then
required, for as cattle could live and thrive all the year round on
the hills, there was no necessity for making hay for winter feed, or
building stables for winter shelter; therefore, with little labor
requisite, the natural consequence was the easy, careless life
led by the Californians. Thus their spare energies were devoted to
horse-racing, dancing, gambling, and kindred amusements.
Horses roamed the hills untethered and a caballero's first occupation
in the morning was to catch a horse, saddle and bridle it, and either
use or keep it tied up at his door during the day, ready for use at any
moment, as both young and old rarely went from one house to another, no
matter how short the distance, except on horseback.
[Illustration: Flag Staff Inn.]
As to the riders themselves, there were probably no better horsemen in
the world than the native Californians.
On a fair spring morning in the month of May, 1850, a single horse,
with two riders, might have been seen threading its way up the steep
mountain trail leading from Bolinas to San Rafael. The bright, girlish
face of the first rider peered wistfully from beneath the soft folds
of her mantilla, while the young caballero, on the crupper behind,
whispered to her in those sweet, melodious tones unheard save from
a liquid Spanish tongue. Of the purport of their whispers we can but
judge, for on arriving at the Mission they were greeted by a joyous
peal of wedding bells.
The groom was Francisco Sebrean, the bride the beautiful Senorita
Maria Briones, daughter of the pioneer. This was the first marriage in
Bolinas and the celebration which followed their return to the Rancho
was the most notable ever witnessed in that region. Dancing, feasting,
music and gayety continued until the gray dawn appeared to touch the
surrounding hilltops and proclaim the approach of another day.
[Illustration: Sand Dunes.]
[Illustration: The Breakers.]
Stopping at the home of the only remaining daughter of Don Briones,
now a dignified, delightful, old lady, with the charming manners and
graces of a true descendant of old Spain, we procured directions and
soon found the oldest house in Bolinas. Although this was not the first
built there, it is the oldest standing, and was occupied by the Briones
family, Don Gregorio dying many years ago, while his wife, the Senora
Briones, lived there until 1903, reaching her one hundred and seventh
birthday--which goes to prove that it is the simple, natural life which
begets old age.
[Illustration: The Oil Well.]
If one is a good pedestrian and has a desire to get acquainted with
nature untamed "without her hair combed" he should take the Lone Tree
Trail leading from Bolinas over the hills, through the canyons and
along the ridges back to the starting point, Mill Valley.
[Illustration: Where Don Gregorio Died.]
[Illustration: Thad Welch's Cabin.]
In a little "Steep Ravine" amid the high hills, and but a short
distance from the Ocean and Bolinas, stands the solitary cabin of the
man who by the magic of his brush first awoke the outer world to a
realization of the beauties and possibilities of this region.
[Illustration: Duxbury Reef.]
With the hand of a master, Thad Welch caught the rare effects abounding
here, which have delighted and won the admiration of all nature-lovers,
and linked his name inseparably with Marin. While at present residing
in another portion of the County, the cabin which he formerly occupied
here is in a state of neglect, but while his little abode may perish,
his pictures will live and be cherished in the ages yet to come.
Some distance from the Steep Ravine the trail descends an abrupt,
wooded hillside, at the foot of which lies the Redwood Canyon. For this
forest of giant redwoods, comprising six hundred acres, negotiations
were pending toward making it a national reserve, but the efforts
proved unsuccessful. Though of smaller dimensions than the Calaveras
Big Trees, these redwoods gain by beauty of situation what they lack in
size.
The Canyon runs diagonally with the sea coast and has its rise in one
of Tamalpais' western ribs, from which a railroad similar to the Mount
Tamalpais Railway is under course of construction, connecting the
Mountain with the Canyon.
[Illustration: The Lone Tree.]
Its present owners, Messrs. Kent & Cushing, intend to erect a hotel
at the terminus of the new road, and the building, on which it is said
will be expended some fifty or sixty thousand dollars, will be a fully
equipped, sumptuous modern hostelry.
[Illustration: Thad Welch at Work.]
It is to be hoped that the march of civilization, which so often leaves
nature's handiwork crushed, broken and even obliterated, will spare
this grand, majestic forest in which beauty now reigns supreme.
Bending low over the little stream which winds through this canyon huge
sprays of azaleas filled the air with their delicate perfume; on the
banks lacy wood warriors and the hardy sword-ferns mingled in graceful
profusion, while the flickering sunlight filtering aslant through the
tree tops fell on the transparent hazel leaves lending a soft, green
glint to a neighboring pool which rippled every now and then by the
action of numerous trout catching flies on its surface.
[Illustration: Among the Redwoods.]
Wandering beneath these perennial columns, these huge monoliths of
whose birth there is no record, one feels as if treading the grandest
of cathedral aisles, and that in truth "The groves were God's first
temples" and "Solitude is the veritable audience chamber of the
Creator."
No echo follows our footsteps on the soft needles and oxalis and save
for the murmuring of the little stream and the occasional calling of a
mourning dove in the tree tops above there is no sound. Here, alone in
these solitudes, the higher self--the soul--strikes off its shackles,
and expands to the very infinitude of things, through nature to the
Infinite.
Near the southeastern shores of Marin lies the largest and most
picturesque of the three islands which adorn San Francisco Bay. Though
lawfully a portion of Marin County, Angel Island, separated from the
mainland by Raccoon Straits, besides being set aside as a Government
reserve, is therefore seldom classed with the County, and usually ranks
with her sister islands, Alcatraz and Yerba Buena.
[Illustration: Primal Solitudes.]
But a sketch of Marin, however cursory, would be incomplete without
her southern isle, for besides the United States Barracks, situated on
the western part of the Island, there is located in a northern cove
the Federal quarantine station, that most necessary adjunct of San
Francisco, which prevents contagion by quenching the pestilence often
brought to our shores from the Orient and South American ports.
Besides its present significance the Island has another and far older
claim on our attention.
In the summer of 1775, Juan de Ayala, a lieutenant of the Royal Spanish
Navy, was given a commission from Junipero Serra and Bucareli, the
Mexican Viceroy, to proceed to "the arm of the sea" lying north of
Monterey, which had been twice viewed by the padres from the land, to
ascertain if it were a canal or bay, and make a survey of it.
Pursuant to these instructions Ayala cautiously crept up the Coast
and on the ninth day sighted the narrow passage which is now known the
world over as the Golden Gate.
[Illustration: In the Canyon.]
A crude launch was sent to explore the opening, which was found to be
deep and without obstructions. By the time the launch returned it had
grown dark, nevertheless Ayala headed for the Bay and on the night of
August 5, 1775, the San Carlos sailed in through the Strait, the first
ship that ever passed the pillared passage or entered what is now known
as the Bay of San Francisco.
Having entered safely, Ayala moored his vessel just inside the Bay, and
the next morning, looking around him, selected an island not far from
the entrance as a convenient spot to make his headquarters.
[Illustration: Angel Island from the Mainland.]
Upon examination, he found a suitable place for mooring his vessel,
also wood and water in abundance. This Island was then named Nuestra
Senora de Los Angeles, the appellation which it still bears, though
shortened to Angel Island.
On the mainland, directly across from the Island, lies Tiburon, the
ferry and terminus of the California Northwestern Railroad. Besides the
Company's shops, Tiburon consists mainly of stores--in short all that
is included in the usual "Water Front."
The most interesting object in Tiburon is on the road between
that place and Belvedere. This is none other than the remains of a
remarkable old hulk, now beached and converted into a habitation.
Besides its unique appearance, there is an interesting tale connected
with the Tropic Bird which is something like the following:
"Early in the year 1850 the good ship, Tropic Bird, Captain Homans
skipper, set sail from Gloucester, Mass., with a cargo of general
produce bound for the Golden Gate. On board was a mixed crew, seafaring
men and land lubbers, all having but one hope, one idea--the far-famed
gold fields of California. A good true ship was the Tropic Bird and a
good true man her skipper, who had with him his brother.
"One day is very much like another on a long ocean voyage,--when the
wind holds good and the weather is fair; but there came a time when
ominous murmurings, gathering force each day, the echo of a mutinous
discontent, reached the quick ears of the young Captain and his
brother.
[Illustration: The Tiburon Depot.]
"The cargo was a valuable one. They were on the high seas. If the crew
stood together against the two men they were as nothing in their hands.
"One night the cloud burst, there was a loud cry from the first mate,
and in a second every one was in the scrimmage.
"The Captain rushed on deck. Though light, he was strong and a famous
wrestler. As soon as he appeared he was pounced upon by the leader of
the mutiny, called Dutch Dick, a big, heavy, slouching fellow. With
almost superhuman strength the gallant Captain disarmed and stunned his
foe after a heavy tussle.
"Men were moaning, yelling, dying on all sides, when suddenly above
this howling, cursing, blood-thirsty mob, there was a bright, piercing
flash, the sharp battalion crack, crack of thunder.
"The storm was on them. No time now for murder and rapine. It was
a battle against the elements. The Captain was up roaring orders to
his men. Those who could, obeyed and worked with a will in the common
danger.
[Illustration: "The Tropic Bird."]
"Battered, tempest-torn, thrown hither and thither, a mere cockle shell
in the hands of God's elements, the staunch ship, skilfully handled by
her skipper, just managed to reach the Golden Gate.
[Illustration: In the Cove.]
"Water-logged and mauled, the gallant Tropic Bird was then unfit to
further cope with the elements, and, after being converted into a
boarding house at the foot of Telegraph Hill by her courageous Captain,
she was later sold and beached at Tiburon, where she now rests, her
labors o'er, a worthy ship with a peaceful, useful old age."
[Illustration: Belvedere.]
Belvedere--beautiful Belvedere it is called, and with justice, too;
for who could view this thickly wooded hillside with its charming
villas without exclaiming Beautiful! These villas are interspersed with
graceful irregularity amid their leafy setting; the sparkling water at
their feet, gay in summer, with house-boats, launches, yachts and other
craft is resonant of one theme, united in one chord--the care-free,
happy, guileless merriment which does more to erase the worry lines
begotten of cities than all the lotions ever prepared. And this, in
truth, is the veritable home of the sportsman, for across the cove
on the Tiburon side is situated the Corinthian Yacht Club, famous in
yachting annals.
However gay this little cove may appear by day it is by the pale
light of the moon that Belvedere, like Venice, is at her best; for the
harsher lines of fact are mellowed, and imagination gives the floating
habitations a fairy aspect, while the strains of the military band from
the Island but lend to the fantasy.
On the opposite side of Belvedere is situated one of the most
prosperous industries conducted in Marin County.
Nestling at the base of the cliffs on an extensive wharf built for the
purpose are the buildings of the Union Fish Company. The Company has
several fishing stations in Alaska, the most extensive of which are on
the Shumagin and Popof Islands. A schooner plying between the stations
and this port brings the fish direct to the fishery, where they are
prepared for use.
[Illustration: An Artistic Church.]
At the time of our visit, the schooner, which had arrived but a few
days previously, was unloading and we were thus fortunate enough to see
the evolution of the codfish from the time it leaves the hold of the
ship until it is packed in neat boxes ready for shipment.
There were four hundred tons, or one hundred and seventy thousand fish
on the vessel. When one thinks that each fish is caught by hook and
line, the amount of work represented seems enormous, but this is a mere
bagatelle compared to the process following.
On leaving the hold they are first thrown into vats of brine for
rinsing, then loaded on small cars operated on a track and run into the
building; from thence they are laid on immense racks in the sun to dry.
If not for immediate shipment they are stored in huge vats of brine.
[Illustration: Unloading Codfish.]
In one large room there were many men at long tables, engaged in
skinning and boning the fish, and the celerity and skill with which
this was accomplished are marvelous to watch. The refuse, which
formerly was discarded as being useless, is now utilized, the bones
being made into a fertilizer, while the skins are used for glue.
There are seventy-five men employed in this establishment, and the
order and cleanliness of the place testify to its able management.
Owing to the inclemency of the weather during the winter months, a
steam-drying apparatus was in the course of construction by which the
fish can be dried with safety in the rainy season.
Leaving Tiburon, a short ride on the California Northwestern Railway
brought us to Greenbrae, a small station, uninteresting in itself
and unimportant save as the place from which is reached that huge
institution known as the state prison, San Quentin.
[Illustration: Drying Codfish.]
Situated on Point San Quentin, which extends into upper San Francisco
Bay, with round guard towers perched on the hill overlooking it, and
a twenty-foot wall enclosing its eight acres, the prison would seem
impregnable and unpropitious for an outbreak.
The high somber buildings, which are of red brick, have been added to
and remodeled at intervals without any given plan, and thus they form
an irregular mass, interspersed with paved courts and narrow cells.
[Illustration: San Quentin.]
A large, square plot is devoted to grass and flowers and lends a
cheering tone to the grim structures surrounding it. One of these, a
tall edifice with a succession of iron doors opening on to small, long
balconies, reached by narrow steps, is called the Tanks.
The average cell in this building is eight by twelve feet in
dimensions. In each of these five men are stowed--one could not
say accommodated for the narrow bunks placed in tiers, with a still
narrower passageway between, vividly suggested the over-crowded lodging
houses of Mulberry Bend, which Jacob Riis's perseverance eradicated.
In other buildings are cells, each of which is thirty by twenty-seven
feet, which contain twenty-six men, and one cell, of thirty-six by
twenty-one feet, lodges forty-eight convicts.
[Illustration: Point San Quentin, as Seen from Mt. Tamalpais.]
Though the system of ventilation is by means of flues attached to the
ceiling and door, still these rooms, in which are herded individuals
of all ages and classes, must become exceedingly foul and unhealthful;
while the opportunity which this congregate system affords the
prisoners for concocting plots and outbreaks is undeniably assured.
Of the prison industries the jute mill is of sole importance to the
outer world; all other products being consumed there. Some eight
hundred convicts labor at the mill, and five million sacks are annually
sent from the prison.
There are paint and tin shops which supply all the tin-cups, hand
basins, pails, etc., used in the institution; tailor shops in which
are made all the clothes; carpenter shops for repairing and furniture,
while sixty pairs of shoes are turned out each week from the boot
shop. In the machine shops where are manufactured all the needles used
in sewing the jute bags half a dozen excellent sewing machines were
recently made.
The extensive laundry where numerous Chinese convicts are employed,
is only one of the many evidences of cleanliness witnessed in this
institution, where order and system are apparent to even the casual
observer. But however orderly, systematic and cleanly a prison may be
kept, that is only one means toward eliminating crime; for so long
as we continue in our congregate system of indiscriminate herding
together of all classes of offenders so long will our penitentiaries
be hot-houses for fostering crime. Instead of eliminating, we confirm;
instead of inciting decency and self-respect, we incite indecency and
rebellion.
[Illustration: Lagunitas, San Rafael's Water Supply.]
At the time of our visit there were in San Quentin about a dozen
lads, the youngest but fourteen years of age, imprisoned on charges of
murder, who, had it not been for the supervision of Warden Tompkins,
would have been placed with the confirmed, hardened criminals.
[Illustration: Trolling on the Lake.]
The State makes no provision for these offenders, and, unless as
in this instance they are separated by the individual action of the
Warden, they would ere now be proficient in the lore of crime.
Crime is contagious, because thought is contagious.
By this it is not meant that you and I, if we mix with criminals, will
become criminally inclined; because our ego--or soul--not having any
prenatal defect or susceptibility to crime will be unresponsive to its
influence.
But to a criminal, whether he be a first offender or not, the
pernicious, indiscriminate companionship of fellow convicts who suggest
crime in its various distorted shapes to his abnormal, defective mind,
will plant seed-thoughts which thus sown thrive and grow until we have
the confirmed criminal.
If a criminal is so receptive to suggestions of evil, and his criminal
capacity is so strengthened and fixed by the ideas and emotions that he
entertains, would not counter-suggestions have just as potent an effect
on the individual?
[Illustration: A Marin Landscape.
(From the Original by Thad Welch.)]
If, through the channels of thought, he is susceptible to maleficent
influences will he not be equally responsive, through the same medium,
to the beneficial?
[Illustration: Mt. Tamalpais from Ross Valley.]
Granting this to be true, would it not be well to surround the convict
with all that stands for advancement, and through intelligent education
and suggestion awaken the latent good which is in each individual, no
matter how dormant and perverted it may be?
By education is not meant the rudimentary school education, for many
criminals are proficient in that, but the far more important study
of self-respect, honesty, veracity, industry, unselfishness, and an
appreciation and proper use of the things that are.
Methinks if with the contemplated enlargement to the prison an
educative, segregative, industrial system similar to that adopted
with such marked success in the Elmira Reformatory, New York, were
inculcated in our state prison there would be less "recedivists"--fewer
many-term offenders--and the fifteen thousand dollars which it
costs the State monthly to conduct a prison would not be devoted to
confirming criminals.
Although Marin County is sparsely populated, owing to its large tracts
of hilly surface and consequent non-agricultural facilities, still the
towns within its borders are of average population, the largest, San
Rafael, comprising five thousand inhabitants.
Besides being the county seat, San Rafael has the distinction of having
once been a mission settlement, and though the church has long since
mingled with the dust, the memory of its bygone glory clings like the
lichen of the remaining pear trees to the spot which knew it in its
prime; when to the clanging of the mellow toned Spanish bells, the
neofites, the children of the soil, would kneel in meek devotion before
the sacred altar whose fires, like their lives, have long been quenched
but appear again, let us hope, in their successive higher spheres.
Except in memories San Rafael is essentially modern.
The factory and the loom form no part of its existence, and with the
exception of two brick kilns and a planing mill on the outskirts, the
town is without industries.
Therefore, sheltered as it is by beautiful rolling hills on three
sides, with a mild climate and not even a street-car, as yet, to
disturb the stillness, San Rafael, like Ross Valley, is considered an
ideal spot for homes.
Besides its handsome residences and long shaded avenues, which afford
much enjoyment for driving, San Rafael is noted for its excellent
schools.
[Illustration: A Home in Ross Valley.]
These not only consist of the splendid public schools, but of private
institutions, notably the Hitchcock and Mt. Tamalpais Military
Academies for boys, and the excellent Dominican Convent for girls,
besides the St. Vincent and Presbyterian orphan asylums in the vicinity
procure for the town the name of an educational center.
A short time ago, Mr. Andrew Carnegie donated to Marin's county seat
the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars for a public library, the plans
of which are now under consideration.
That her residents are not less generous than the famous philanthropist
was forcibly shown on April 29, 1905, when Mr. and Mrs. John F. Boyd
transferred to the town some seventy acres for a memorial park. The
occasion of its dedication was marked by able addresses from the
"Wizard of the Plant World," Mr. Luther Burbank, United States Judge W.
W. Morrow, and Judge Thomas J. Lennon.
[Illustration: A Shaded Avenue.]
Abounding in natural verdure, artistically embellished and converted
into a perpetual pleasure ground, the Boyd Memorial Park seems a
fitting testimonial to the memory of the sons of its donators.
While noted as an educational center, San Rafael also has the unique
distinction of being the Gretna Green of the Coast; and the blushing
brides and happy grooms united here exceed in numbers those from the
erstwhile famous European village.
To this charming little northern settlement from all the surrounding
counties and various parts of the state they come to plight their
troth, averaging, it is said, five a day; "and the best and most
remarkable part of it all is," Marin's genial Judge informed me, "they
turn out all right," and, really, I suppose he ought to know.
Notable among the many charming residences in San Rafael is Fairhills,
a summer home of Mr. A. W. Foster.
It is surrounded by a stately garden where the choicest plants abound
in graceful profusion, blending one with another in a perfect harmony
of colors, while the majestic trees, spreading a deep shade over the
sloping velvety lawn, are reminiscent of a Warwickshire landscape.
[Illustration: Dress Parade, Hitchcock Military Academy.]
[Illustration: Theological Seminary, San Anselmo.]
To the westward, wooded hills--truly fair hills--with their ever
changing, hazy tones, are visible from the spacious veranda, and the
perpetual calmness and majesty of their lofty slopes would seem to
impart some of themselves to the beholder, for, as Rousseau says, "Our
meditations gain a character of sublimity and grandeur proportioned to
the objects around us."
[Illustration: Dominican Convent.]
Although essentially a resident settlement, the tourist will find
ample accommodations at Hotel Rafael, sometimes called the "Del Monte
of the North." Though of smaller dimensions, and with less sumptuous
appointments and surroundings than the southern hostelry, Hotel Rafael,
within easy access of the City, is more convenient for those who enjoy
the country, yet never leave their business for its sake.
While the Assyrians, Babylonians, Greeks and later Gauls and Romans
were weaving the first few threads of our planet's history in the
old world, the aborigines of America roamed our trackless, primeval
forests, boundless save for two shimmering oceans and a blue canopy
overhead.
[Illustration: Court House, San Rafael.]
Fearless, they plunged into the thickets, swam the streams, hunted
game, caught the bear and bison, trapped the fowl, and dauntlessly
lived on in fear of neither nature, beast nor man--primitive--just
a savage, but possessing the fundamental requisites from which all
civilizations, sects, isms, or communities have been evolved--a human
being with a soul.
Therefore the red man is to America what the cave man is to Europe--the
father of his country.
In the history of our State the aborigines played an all-important
part, as the founding of the missions by the Friars was with the avowed
intention of reclaiming these children of the wilderness, to teach them
civilization.
[Illustration: Escalle Vineyard and Winery.]
[Illustration: "Fairhills."]
The first mention made of the Indians in Marin County is found in an
old legend which states that about the time of the erection of the
Mission at San Francisco a party of Spaniards crossed the Straits at
what is now known as Lime Point and traveled northward. It was late
in the season, and they found no streams of running water until they
arrived at Olompali, so named from a great and powerful tribe of
Indians who dwelt at this place, the Olompalis. Here they were kindly
received by the natives, and all their wants were supplied as far as it
lay in their power. The party was so well entertained that the leaders
decided to remain a fortnight and recruit their horses and become
thoroughly rested, preparatory to proceeding on their arduous journey.
In return for the kindness received, they taught the Indians how to
make adobe brick and construct a house.
That history corroborates this legend is shown in an old chronicle by
the biographer of Junipero Serra, Father Palou, which says that "in
1776, after the Presidio and before the Mission (in San Francisco) were
established, an exploration of the interior was organized as usual by
sea (the bay), and land."
Thus, in the northeast corner of the County, near Novato, was built the
first adobe house north of San Francisco Bay, on the Olompali Rancho,
owned by the late Dr. Burdell.
[Illustration: Fourth Street, San Rafael.]
The first adobe has long since disappeared, the last mention found of
it being a remark of General Vallejo's when, some thirty years ago,
on passing the Olompali Rancho and pointing to a crumbling adobe he
remarked to a companion, "That is over a hundred years old."
But the adobe that concerns us, the long, low, rambling adobe, is
still standing in good condition and occupied by Dr. Burdell's family.
This was supposedly the second built and is accredited to have been
constructed by the last chief of the tribe, Camillo Ynitia.
[Illustration: Entrance to Hotel Rafael.]
Camillo, after obtaining three successive patents for the Rancho, first
from Spain, then from Mexico, and lastly from the United States, sold
it for five thousand dollars, which he was believed to have buried
in the vicinity. Refusing to divide the proceeds of the Rancho, and
furthermore to disclose the spot where the gold was buried, Camillo was
subsequently murdered by his brother.
[Illustration: Hotel Rafael.]
The Olompali Rancho is beautifully situated, lying as it does at the
base of Mt. Olompali which is believed to be an extinct volcano.
[Illustration: The Late Owner of the Olompali.]
Mortars found five feet under ground in the river bed, together with
sand, mud, gravel, pebbles, and cement strata on the mountain side,
testify to volcanic action.
From this mountain which formerly, in unknown ages emitted hot,
sulphuric gases from its bosom, now runs a clear and limpid stream, a
perpetual penance to nature for the havoc it once wrought.
When the Spaniards first visited the County, there were said to be
thirty distinct tribes of Indians, each with its separate chief; while
their language or dialect differed materially.
That they lived on mussels, sturgeon, and game from the marshes, is
evidenced by the remains found in the huge shell mounds distributed
throughout the County.
[Illustration: The Last of the Race.]
What these mounds are and how they became so, is merely a matter of
conjecture, although the scientists of the University of California
and Stanford are revealing additional clues from time to time as new
deposits are discovered.
[Illustration: A Wood Interior.]
In the Marin mounds have been found mortars and pestles, queer old
pipes, beads of wampum, oyster picks, skulls, and in many instances
entire skeletons, while the arrow-points testify to certain warlike
propensities, although on the whole they were said to be peaceful
tribes.
[Illustration: Summer in the Redwoods.]
The bows which they used with such celerity and skill were uniquely
fashioned; the cord consisting of the nerves taken from a deer's back.
The Marin Indians and in fact all the California tribes, dwelt in small
huts built of willows with tules or rushes, and formed by taking a few
poles, placing them in a circle, and finally weaving them together to
a conical point, giving, when completed, the appearance of inverted
baskets.
They were usually constructed on the banks of streams, and, being
small, were easily warmed in winter.
The aborigines' knowledge of the proper treatment of disease was
very limited. Roots and herbs were sometimes used as remedies but the
"sweat-house" (temescal) was the principal reliance in desperate cases.
[Illustration: A Charming Drive.]
One of these sweat-houses was found on the Nicasio Rancheria, just over
the Olompali Mountains.
It consisted of a large circular excavation, covered with a roof of
boughs, plastered with mud, having a hole on one side for an entrance,
another in the roof to serve as a chimney.
A fire having been lit in the center, the sick were placed there to
undergo a sweat bath for many hours, to be succeeded by a plunge in the
ice-cold waters of a neighboring stream.
This treatment was their cure-all, and whether it killed or
relieved the patient depended upon the nature of his disease and his
constitution.
[Illustration: Browsing.]
It seems but fitting that this County, which formerly was a favorite
rendezvous of the Indians, should derive its name from a famous chief
of the Lacatuit Indians, who frequented the southern part of the
Peninsula.
Between the years 1815 and 1824 Chief Marin, aided by his people,
is said to have vanquished the Spaniards in several skirmishes for
supremacy. Being finally captured by his enemies, and making his
escape, Marin took shelter on a tiny island in upper San Francisco Bay.
This island being subsequently called after him, communicated its name
to the adjacent mainland.
Falling into the hands of his foes a second time, he barely escaped
being put to death through the interference of the priests at the
Mission San Rafael.
While surveying the County several years ago, Mr. Jacob Leese had
with him as assistants the old Indian chief, Marin, and some of his
followers. It became necessary for the surveyor to establish an initial
point on the top of Mt. Tamalpais, and he wished Marin and some others
to go up with him. To this they made strong objections, stating that
the top of the Mountain was inhabited by evil spirits, and no one could
go up there and come back alive. After vainly trying to persuade them
to accompany him, Mr. Leese, finally decided to go up alone, which he
did, the Indians prophesying that they never expected to see him again.
On reaching the top and accomplishing his purpose, he was puzzled to
know how he could convince the redskins of having reached the summit.
To do this he placed a large limb across an old dead tree, thus forming
a cross which could be seen in the Valley below. He then descended and
directed the attention of the Indians to the cross.
[Illustration: A Characteristic Stream.]
Prior to this, Marin had been considered by his followers as the
bravest man in the world. He therefore found that it would never do for
him to be afraid to attempt what a white man had accomplished.
Marin then determined, against the most earnest entreaties of his men,
to go up where the white man had been. Tearing himself from his men he
ascended the Mountain alone and when there had to study how he should
convince his followers of the fact.
Unwinding his outer blanket he suspended it on the arm of Mr. Leese's
cross, having done which, he descended the Mountain.
On seeing him without his garment, his followers concluded that he had
been robbed by the Devil himself; but pointing out to them his blanket
waving upon the cross, much joy was expressed over his restoration to
them as the bravest of the brave.
The foregoing tale is only one of many which illustrate the profound
superstitions prevailing among the Indians.
Certain rocks and mountains were regarded as sacred, while the grizzly
was held in superstitious awe, nothing inducing them to eat its flesh.
[Illustration: Relics From a Shell Mound.]
[Illustration: Haying Time.]
The idea of a future state was universal among the California Indians,
for as they expressed it, "as the moon died and came to life again
so man came to life after death," and they believed that "the hearts
of good chiefs went up to the sky and were changed into stars to keep
watch over their tribes on earth."
A short distance from the Olompali Rancho is Novato, a small town which
until a few years ago possessed the largest apple orchard in the world.
At the present time the New York and the Novato French cheese factories
are its only noteworthy industries. The latter, which is representative
of a thriving, modern cheese-factory, is conveniently located beside
the California Northwestern Railway on whose cars the local shipments
are made twice each day.
But this local trade is by no means the factory's sole outlet, for
besides supplying the Coast and the East as far as Iowa (where another
branch is located), cheese is exported to the Hawaiian Islands, Japan,
China and other foreign countries.
[Illustration: Apple Picking in Marin.]
In this unpretentious building, in which but twelve men are employed,
fifty thousand five-pound cases of cheese are manufactured a year, or
a little more than four thousand (cases) a month. In the spring from
twelve hundred to fourteen hundred pounds of cheese are manufactured
each day.
Besides its famous Circle Brand Breakfast Cheese, the Novato French
Cheese Factory manufactures large quantities of Fromage de Brie,
Neufch, Sierra, Fromage de Chanembert, Schlosskase and Kummelkase.
On a tiny island amid the marshes in this, the extreme northeastern
corner of Marin, is located the Miramonte Club. A sportsman's club
in every particular, it is very advantageously situated, for around
these northern marshes the game is very plentiful and the sportsman is
usually rewarded for his labor.
[Illustration: Cheese Industry.]
Besides the fowl for the larder, there are many other birds about
the marshes. In summer redwinged blackbirds, each with its scarlet
shoulder-patch, may frequently be seen, while the herons with their
long, ungainly legs are often visible wading in the pools, or standing
on some lonely reef, like solitary sentinels.
In the winter, great flocks of little sandpipers frequent this region;
their white breasts gleaming in the sun in the course of their graceful
evolutions. Then there are the slender beaked curlews which, like the
heron, wade about the pools in search of food.
In the fall and winter the salt-water marshes have a peculiar charm not
only for the sportsmen who delight in the abounding bird-life, but for
the humble excursionists who, gunless, admire the marvelous diversity
of coloring displayed in the grotesquely shaped marshland.
For no other weed, grass or vine assumes a greater variety of tints
than the marsh vegetation, which from the dull russet of summer changes
to a combination of olive, purple, magenta, copper, and violet, so
harmoniously blended that, besides charming the observer, it lures many
a local artist from his studio in town.
[Illustration: Young Herons.]
[Illustration: On the Marsh.]
In Marin the feathered songsters hold a unique place, for, as the
county is sparsely populated, possessing many wild, secluded valleys,
and unnumbered rolling hills covered with virgin forests, it is but
natural that the birds should congregate in great numbers, reveling in
the solitude which man invariably destroys.
If the traveler is interested in these woodland tenants, and would
learn something of their haunts and life, he should visit one who knows
them as Thoreau knew all the wild and untamed things of nature.
A short distance from Fairfax the San Geronimo Valley, nestling among
the hills, is a fitting location for this naturalist and bird-lover.
Though a taxidermist of much skill, Mr. Charles Allen is more widely
known among ornithologists by that little fairy creature which makes
its appearance in the early spring, known as Allen's Hummingbird.
Although similar in point of size, it is in its coloring that Allen's
Hummer may be distinguished from other hummingbirds, for its green
back, ruffus-tail, streaked with black, dark-wings and ruffus head,
easily separate it from other varieties.
[Illustration: R. H. Hotaling's Residence on "Sleepy Hollow Ranch."]
To a reflective mind there is no time of the year more joyous than
spring. All nature seems gay and full of promise. Hope is vibrant in
the air, and enters into the nature of the receptive man through more
senses than science has yet named or discovered--an unnamed sense
which is neither sight, nor sound, nor touch, nor intuition, a vibrant
unseen force which is current throughout the universe, connecting man,
unknowingly, to every tree, shrub, and atom. Thus, in the spring one
feels that:
"There's a chorus in the valleys and an anthem on the hills
There's an echo from the music which our inner being thrills
Till we long to journey outward where no other foot has trod,
And join in the song of worship at the shrine of Nature's
God."
Spring is synonymous with the return of the birds, and their blythe
little songs are but another promise of hope and expectation.
Following close upon the return of Allen's Hummingbird is the little
piliolated warbler with his green back, pale, sulphur yellow breast,
and tiny "pee wit" call.
[Illustration: The Taxidermist of Marin.]
When the climbing roses are becoming gay with blossoms, our old
friends, the linnets, returning from their winter's sojourn in lower
California, begin to build their nests.
A walk in the woods in the early morning or evening will acquaint
one with another spring bird, Vaux's Swift, invariably seen about the
streams.
[Illustration: A Quail's Nest.]
In our hasty glimpse of the birds, it is impossible to enumerate all
the feathered flock, and the renewal of a few old acquaintances will
have to suffice. A very characteristic summer inhabitant of Marin's
woodlands is the Red Shafted Flicker, a large bird, conspicuous when
flying for its gay plumage, and often seen about the stumps of rotten
trees, in the holes of which it makes its nest. While strolling
in the woods we are often startled by a sharp rat-tat-tat on a
neighboring alder, and on close approach a flutter of wings discloses
a black-and-white creature with a dash of scarlet on his head. This is
Harris's Woodpecker which makes the silent woods resound to its noisy
rapping. A harsh, squawking call, a swift flight of blue wings, and
an ensuing, noisy chatter announce the saucy California jay--the least
lovable to my mind of all the California birds. He is the Rockefeller
of the bird-world, consuming and destroying the eggs of his fellow
birds, leaving destruction and ruin in his wake in the shape of
desolate, broken nests. A pleasing contrast to this sharp, unruly bird,
is the large, beautiful orange mottled Bullock's Oriole, who fills the
air near sundown, with his rich, melodious warble, which he repeats
with never-tiring zeal.
[Illustration: A Humming Bird's Nest.]
[Illustration: Little Songsters.]
Of the fall birds, the crows and Brewer's Blackbirds are the most
notable. Though the former are with us the entire year, it is in the
fall, in flocking time, that their loud caw-caw-caw is heard as in
bands they circle above the tree-tops; while Brewer's Blackbirds,
sleek, glossy fellows, after foraging throughout the day in the
valleys, soar to some huge dead pine tree and chatter through the
twilight hours, flying when night arrives, with one accord, to a patch
of tules in some pond where they settle for the night.
[Illustration: A Sportsman.]
Of the non-migrating birds, the little dark brown Wren Tit, inhabitant
of thickets; the dull gray and white Titmouse, frequenter of oaks; the
friendly little California Chickadee; not to mention the great horned
Owls with their deep hoo-hoo-hoo, the barn-owls with their treble
screech, and lastly the beautiful oft-abused Quail, are but a few of
the interesting native inhabitants of Marin.
[Illustration: Near to Nature's Heart.]
Owing to the widely scattered population in the northern part of
Marin County, this section is consequently more wild and natural in
appearance than the southern half.
Lying at the base of a range of high hills which slope somewhat
abruptly to the Ocean are the most interesting natural phenomena in
this region. This is a chain of sparkling lakes, three in number,
which at first view on descending the precipitous roadway seem to be
connected with the Ocean so near its edge do they appear.
Upon close approach, however, we discovered them to be of fresh water
and at an elevation of nine hundred feet above sea level, but their
close proximity to the Ocean and the cavernous inlets opening from the
sea would intimate their former connection.
[Illustration: A Bend in The Road.]
On the shore of the largest of these, Shafter Lake, is located, amid
the luxuriant copse wood, the Point Reyes Sportsmen's Club House. As
the lakes are stocked with black bass, land-locked salmon, and various
kinds of trout the angler is a familiar figure in the vicinity; and the
abounding deer, quail, ducks, and snipe, attract the huntsman, while
the beauty of these unique lakes and their picturesque environs, though
little known to the general public, induce many a local pedestrian to
take the twelve-mile tramp from Olema, through the forests over the
steep ridges and down among the chemisal and sagebrush to this Ocean
retreat.
[Illustration: One of the Sparkling Lakes.]
Some four miles northwest of the lakes a narrow valley, lined by
massive barren hills, winds its way to the Pacific. Mammoth oaks adorn
its wild and tangled glades, huge redwoods lift their lofty tops to the
sky, while ferns and trailing vines festoon the banks and rocks with
such luxuriance that the whole seems a riot of contending greens.
Winding in and out like a silver thread among the stately trees and
saplings is a little stream which fills the air with freshness and the
cadence of a song, while hanging in fantastic, airy festoons from the
trees which look in consequence like bearded Druids, covering trunks
and branches, spreading its delicate traceries on the rocks, and
abounding on every conceivable object are such masses of vari-colored
moss that one would feign exclaim, "Surely this should be called Moss,
not Bear Valley!" for while the latter roving inhabitants have long
since disappeared, the former is and no doubt will remain, in evidence
until the forest is no more.
It is necessary to see this Valley in order to comprehend its beauty.
[Illustration: Shafter Lake.]
One can drive through its cool depths on a finely graded road amid
thousands of majestic trees, while here and there an open space reveals
the sunlight and the blue sky overhead in contrast with the dim,
uncertain light pervading its woodland stretches.
No lover of the beautiful can regret a jaunt to this delightful spot,
for the charm and witchery of its unique beauty remain in the memory
long after the excursion is a thing of the past; even as the perfume of
a rose remains after the flower has faded.
The sole habitation in Bear Valley, located in a charming sunny
exposure with imposing trees and garden surrounding it, is the Country
Club, famous in local circles.
[Illustration: On the Shore of Shafter Lake.]
The deep baying of hounds from its extensive kennels forms the only
discordant note in the Valley, reminding one that even near to nature's
heart man's inherent primitiveness asserts itself. If, when wandering
in these woodland fastnesses, he (man) would hunt the wild creatures
with a camera it would require greater patience, skill and acumen than
making the ground wet with the blood of fawns and quail.
[Illustration: Entering Bear Valley.]
But "civilization has ever developed the physical and the intellectual
at the expense of the psychic, the humane, and the spiritual."
[Illustration: The Country Club.]
Notwithstanding its small area, numerable excursions offer themselves
to the ambitious tourist in Marin, while the diversity of its surface
and climate, and the ease with which one can explore its remaining
primeval stretches, make this tiny northern peninsula a necessary
adjunct to San Francisco, which, with its ever-increasing population,
needs an outlet for recreation, relaxation, and repose.
[Illustration: Among the Ferns.]
Moreover, as the other Bay counties are less rugged in formation,
more inhabited, and consequently more conventional in appearance, true
nature-lovers find an outing in Marin a solace and an inspiration.
[Illustration: At the Trough.]
A short distance from Bear Valley the road, after passing a stretch of
low marsh-land covered with tules, reeds, and willows, comes suddenly
to a sheet of water which at first sight appears to be an inland lake,
so peaceful and protected are its waters.
This is none other than Tomales Bay--a long, narrow inlet from the
Ocean.
At the base of the range of lofty hills which shelter it on the west
is situated Inverness, the location of the tract of three thousand and
three hundred acres which was recently sold, constituting, it is said,
the largest single transaction in suburban lands ever made in this part
of California, or in fact anywhere else in this State. It involved over
half a million dollars, and is reputed to be the beginning of a new
movement in Marin.
[Illustration: Nearing Tomales Bay.]
The land is to be divided for summer homes and cottages; and as the
nearest station is Point Reyes, it is planned to operate a ferry across
Tomales Bay, which would shorten the distance to the railroad where a
new station is to be erected.
Extensive plans are also on foot to extend the electric road from its
present northern terminus at Fairfax to Inverness, and once that is
accomplished, the new summer resort and suburban town will be brought
within a little more than an hour's ride of San Francisco.
Besides its many rural attractions there are more than six miles of
sand beach at Inverness, and the tide on going out exposes the sand to
the sun, which warms the water on its return, and insures delightful
bathing during the summer.
[Illustration: Tomales Bay.]
[Illustration: Church of the Assumption, Tomales.]
Unlike many of the counties of California, Marin, during the gold
period, attracted very little attention among the miners. Her chief,
and, in fact, only industry in those days was the raising of stock.
About the year 1860 the people in the northern part of the County,
especially in the Tomales district, located on the eastern part
of upper Tomales Bay, began growing potatoes with such successful
results that the County soon gained the name of an unusually fertile
potato-raising region.
Although stock, potato-raising, and dairying are still continued in
a small degree in the vicinity of Tomales, the chicken industry is
gradually superseding them, and the success attending this latest
departure portends well for the future of this section.
The small ranches, which formerly were most all incumbered with one or
more mortgages, are now being cleared, and the general aspect for the
small rancher is greatly improved.
Poultry raising as conducted under the present modern system is vastly
superior to anything of its kind in former years.
Some idea of the dimensions of this industry were gained during a
recent visit made by the author to one of these modern poultry farms.
The ranch was of average size, and in the neat yards inclosed by
high wire fences I saw some thirteen hundred laying hens, while eight
hundred pullets for the market, all graded as to age, were in various
yards.
[Illustration: Feeding Time.]
From this ranch between five and six cases of eggs are shipped every
week, each case containing thirty-six dozen; averaging two hundred and
seventy-five cases or thirty thousand eggs per year.
In the laying season over seven hundred eggs are gathered daily.
[Illustration: Chicken Ranches in Marin.]
The multitudinous, airy, white-washed hen houses in the numerous,
cleanly, sunny inclosures; the fields of grain raised for the fowls'
consumption; the incubator room and the adjoining brooder; the granary,
from which at stated periods the food is measured, are all adjuncts of
the modern poultry ranch.
It is interesting to watch the great flocks of fowl, all snowy white
(the white leghorn being preferred), darting noisily toward the
attendant as he enters their enclosure at feeding-time, and the ensuing
scramble for wheat, and the continuous pick-pick-pick verily make the
hen a definition for perpetual motion--in feeding-time, at least.
As but five acres of ground are necessary to carry on successfully a
moderate size chicken ranch, it may be seen how with less outlay and
incident expenses the small rancher can make better profits in this
industry than in dairying.
[Illustration: Defacing Nature.]
West of Tomales Bay a long narrow neck of land stretches far out into
the Pacific. Though somewhat barren in appearance, owing to the dearth
of trees and the abundance of low, tangled sagebrush, the fact that
grass grows the entire year on its slopes makes Point Reyes the famous
dairying center of Marin.
Ever since the early eighties dairying has been the leading industry of
the County, and, although carried on in all sections of Marin, it is on
Point Reyes that it assumes the most extensive proportions.
The ranches there are larger in extent, all owned by one person, namely
Mr. Webb Howard, and are rented yearly by the tenants, the cattle being
included with the land.
[Illustration: Dairying on the Edge of the Pacific.]
The average ranch on the Point contains about fourteen hundred and
fifty acres and one hundred and eighty cows; the old stock being
replenished as required.
Great quantities of butter are shipped by schooner and rail to the City
where it finds a ready market, as the Marin County butter is known to
be of a superior quality.
A trip to the Point by carriage cannot be made under two days at
the shortest, and as hotels and inns are unknown in this region, the
traveler is obliged to solicit shelter for the night from one of the
ranch houses which are scattered at wide intervals.
[Illustration: In the Pasture.]
There are few places, save Ireland, where hospitality, the real
whole-souled, hearty, genuine hospitality, is so dispensed without
question to the stranger as in this tiny northwest corner of Marin.
Though loath to intrude, the hearty reception tendered and the ensuing
civilities received convince the wayfarer of his welcome, and have
earned a reputation for these good people rivaling in proportion the
Emerald Isle itself.
After spending the night at one of these ranches we proceeded on the
following morning to the most interesting, fascinating, and historical
sheet of water in Marin County.
In 1577, Sir Francis, then only Captain, Drake, already distinguished
as an experienced navigator, fitted out, with the pecuniary aid of the
court, a buccaneering expedition against the Spaniards.
After reaching the Pacific and intercepting several privateers, he
bethought himself of another object, that of finding the much-talked-of
northern passage from the Pacific to the Atlantic.
[Illustration: Going Home.]
If he could discover this passage, he would not only perform a
notable service to his country, but would have a comparatively short
and safe voyage homeward. But after a run of nearly two months,
he experienced such bitterly cold weather, his people suffered so
severely, and his heavily-laden ship leaked so badly, that he deemed
it prudent to abandon any further search for a northern strait; and
accordingly running down the Coast in search of a stopping place, he
passed the long, projecting promontory of Point Reyes, and under its
lee discovered "a convenient and fit harbor" in which he anchored on
June 17th, 1579. At this place, which is now known as Drake's Bay, he
remained thirty-six days. During that period, which was required to
thoroughly repair and refit his vessel, he had a number of interviews,
and some remarkable intercourse with the natives.
[Illustration: A Marin Ranch.]
[Illustration: Sir Francis Drake.--From an old English Painting.]
Upon sailing into the harbor he found a wild, desolate looking beach;
but the next day Indians appeared in considerable numbers. One of them
paddled out in a canoe to within hailing distance of the ship, where he
made a long oration, accompanied by violent gestures, after which he
returned to the shore. Approaching the ship a second time in the same
manner, he brought with him a head-dress of black feathers tastefully
arranged, and a small basket, neatly woven, filled with an herb called
"tabah." These he delivered to the English, and with the exception of
a hat could not be induced to accept any of the presents offered him in
return.
[Illustration: A Bay of Solitude.]
All his actions, as well as of the people on shore, indicated respect
and deference for the English, as if they were a superior race of
beings.
In the course of a few days Drake, having carefully surveyed the place,
brought his ship to anchor near the shore and landed his men with arms
and provisions to set up tents and build a barricade. The Indians at
this collected on the neighboring hills and looked down with wonder
and amazement, so much so, that the English supposed themselves taken
for gods; a supposition which proved correct, for, descending, the male
Indians brought ornaments, net-work, quivers, skins, etc., intended for
offerings, while the women performed divers wild and violent dances, in
which many of the participants were cut and wounded.
[Illustration: Drake's Bay.]
In order to prevent a repetition of this gruesome spectacle, Drake
ordered religious services to be performed in their presence, thus
indicating that they too were but creatures of a God above.
After prayers, psalms were sung which especially attracted the
attention of the Indians.
Music was a language they could understand, being a universal language
intelligible to every human heart; and they were so delighted that at
every pause they testified their pleasure.
[Illustration: A Bit of Rocky Shore.]
The business of repairing and refitting the vessel being at length
finished, the cargo re-embarked and the peaceful character of the
Indians being now so well understood that no trouble from them was
apprehended, Drake, with a number of his crew made a short excursion
inland, which being necessarily made on foot extended but a few miles,
and did not afford any wide or distant view; and the English, like the
Spaniards under Cabrillo, though within less than a day's travel of
the most spacious and magnificent bay in the world, had no idea of its
existence.
[Illustration: Marin Cows.]
When ready to sail, Drake erected, by way of monument and memorial of
his having been there and taken possession of the country, a large
post, firmly planted, upon which he caused to be nailed a plate of
brass engraven with the name of the English Queen, the day and date
of his arrival, the voluntary submission of the inhabitants to English
sovereignty, and beneath all, his own name. Fastened to the plate was
an English sixpence of recent coinage, so placed as to exhibit Her
Majesty's likeness.
All of which goes to prove that Drake supposed himself to be the
discoverer of this region, and was not aware that thirty-six years
previously the Spaniards had passed the same Coast and anticipated him.
Having found no northern passage to the Atlantic, and making up his
mind that if one existed it was too far north to be practical, Drake
returned by the route pointed out by Magellan in his circumnavigation
of the globe.
On July 23d, after many ceremonies of a religious character, and
taking an appropriate farewell of the sorrowful natives, he stood out
to sea. As his ship lessened in the distance, following the sun over
the trackless waste of waters, the Indians ran to the tops of their
hills to keep it in view as long as possible, and lighted fires, which
indicated, long after they themselves could be distinguished from the
vessel, that they were still watchful, and doubtless turning their
straining eyes toward the departing strangers.
[Illustration: Drake's Cross.]
The waves of three centuries have lapped these shores; countless storms
have swept over the promontories, and many tempests have grappled with
its cliffs since the year when Sir Francis first dropped anchor in the
Bay which ultimately bore his name.
Time has made few changes in this Ocean inlet, as man has practically
shunned it; for excepting a small cabin on the beach, no habitation
meets the eye. The schooner which touches there three times a week
to load with butter is the only keel that rides its waves, and the
aspect of the lofty white cliffs which encircle this Bay of Solitude
are unaltered since the time when, attracting the English navigator to
their shores, they received, because of their resemblance to his native
cliffs of Dover, the appellation New Albion.
It seems unjust and absurd that on the shores of this Bay, which was
the theater of Drake's actions in our State, no post, stone or monument
is placed whereon to commemorate his landing, or inform the traveler of
the history enacted there; while in Golden Gate Park on a mound which
his eyes never saw, on soil which his feet never trod, a lofty granite
cross rears its solid strength in his commemoration; an illustration of
the inconsistencies of man.
[Illustration: A Rugged Coast Line.]
[Illustration: Point Reyes.]
Point Reyes should be called the home of the meadowlark for, while
found in other parts of the County, it is on this northern point that
the larks congregate in such numbers that the air is always vibrant
with their cheerful, happy songs.
Perched on the lichen-covered fences, these large, plump,
yellow-breasted fellows are invariably heard warbling their rich,
mellow notes with untiring energy, and making, to my mind, the sweetest
and most enchanting of all music.
There is perhaps no more dangerous and uninviting extent of coast line
from Oregon to Mexico than that extending from Point Reyes northward to
the mouth of Tomales Bay.
To go ashore at any point along this line is to go to certain
destruction, and the fact of its proximity to the harbor of San
Francisco renders it doubly dangerous, as vessels have gone hard ashore
under full sail, little dreaming that danger was near and thinking that
they were heading for the Golden Gate.
Since the establishment, on the extreme point, of the lighthouse in
1870, there have been few wrecks compared with former years, while
those imperiled on the Coast receive assistance from the brave crew of
the life-saving station located on the beach.
[Illustration: Point Reyes Life-Saving Station.]
Near the close of a very murky, foggy day, in August, 1875, a sailing
vessel, the Warrior Queen, bound from Auckland, New Zealand, to San
Francisco, went ashore on the beach, about three miles north of the
Point.
The sky had been so overcast with fog that her officers had not been
able to take any observations for ten days and their "dead-reckoning"
showed them to be many miles at sea.
Suddenly they found themselves in the breakers going ashore on a sand
beach and by immediately casting anchor, the vessel was held from going
hard ashore, although she was later driven far upon the beach.
The men embarked in three boats and put to sea rather than try to
effect a landing in the surf, and reached San Francisco safely the
following day.
[Illustration: Plowing in October.]
When the Warrior Queen was discovered by the settlers the next morning
after she struck, there was consequently no sign of life on board,
and it became a matter of conjecture to those who had assembled on the
beach as to what had become of the crew.
It was decided to go on board and discover, if possible, something to
show the fate of the men, but the difficulty which confronted them was
how to communicate with the ship.
[Illustration: "The Warrior Queen."]
At last, Mr. Henry Claussen, a sea-faring man of much experience (who
still lives with his family on the Point), volunteered to swim out to
the vessel and take a line on board with him. He performed the daring
feat and was rewarded by finding that all books and instruments were
gone, hence he knew that the men had put to sea.
On a ranch but a short distance from the light-house the only known
relic of the wreck remains. This is none other than the Warrior Queen
herself-the figure-head of the vessel. Clad in a suit of mail, a shield
clenched tightly to her side, with head upraised in proud defiance, the
Warrior Queen seems still to send a challenge to the elements; but now
her battle is for life itself--against rain and wind and the decay of
time.
[Illustration: The Lighthouse.]
While prolific in legends and memories, history is not the only
vivifying current in Marin, and though linked inseparably with the
past, she is not a worn and decrepit matron relying on artifice solely
to revive her charms, but a young and vigorous maiden, in whom the
ambitions, powers, and possibilities are all centered but untried.
[Illustration: Cloud-Hosts.]
That a new era is awakening for this region is without doubt. Large
tracts of land formerly held intact are now being divided into building
lots, and the rapidity with which these are selling portends a rapidly
increasing population.
Various railroads are contending for rights of way, and countless
rumors are in circulation, any of which means a changed aspect for the
County.
[Illustration: Where the Waves Break.]
The Marin Terminal is constructing a route from Petaluma to Point San
Pedro, and two railroad companies have filed articles of incorporation
for the avowed purpose of making some points on Marin's shore the land
terminus for railroads from San Francisco to points in the northern
part of the State.
The recent purchase of Silva Island, in Richardson's Bay, by the
officials of the Western Pacific gives credence to a rumor that, a long
wharf being constructed from this Island, the company would institute
a terminus there.
The facilities which this County offers for a railroad center are
undeniable; while the monopolistic control of the surrounding Bay
terminals renders another railroad outlet a practical necessity, and
its adjacency to San Francisco and the excellent harbors which skirt
its shores make Marin a natural and practical center.
[Illustration: The Glory of the Dying Day.]
Without doubt the ensuing years will witness many radical changes for
this northern peninsula.
With the increase in population there is every probability that a
connection from Point San Pedro across to the Belt Line on the Contra
Costa shore will be consummated, linking the Bay counties by a boat
ride of scarce fifteen minutes.
The new coaling station which the Government will erect at California
City, a small place near Tiburon, is another enterprise in the County,
which will call for the expenditure of more than three hundred and
fifty thousand dollars. It is said that the Bureau of Equipment of the
Navy Department has already signed with a New York firm to begin on
this.
Having reached the limits of Marin's enterprises, and territory, Point
Reyes, from which westward stretches an apparent infinitude of sea,
to where the sun, now dipping on the verge of the horizon, casts its
refulgent beams, I gazed backward on Marin which lay behind me glowing
in the glory of the dying day.
The indented shore, on whose cliffs nature has hung no tapestry of
verdure, now enshrouded in the lambent haze, no longer looked as if
composed of material objects, but rather like its luminous wraith
emerging from the sea. And as the mists of evening veiled it gradually
from my view I murmured:
"There is a future as well as a past for this little County, a future
not painted in the dim tints of the fading day, but in the bright,
glorious radiance of the expectant morrow."
[Illustration]
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