A very dull morning with streets and walks wet from a light, drizzling rain greeted our dismayed vision as we hastily glanced from the hotel windows on rising. The hotel people had duly warned us that they hadn’t a corner left for us for the coming night and we counted it very likely that every hotel and lodging house in Eureka was just as “full up,” as the English say. Furthermore, there was no assurance if it once began to rain that it would let up for a week, for week-long rains are to be expected in Humboldt County in season. And from all we could learn, a long-continued rain meant no thoroughfare for heavy cars through the mountains to the south.

We had a little official information concerning the road over which we must pass, for a bulletin of the California Highway Commission declared, “Eureka can be reached during the summer months only under the most strenuous conditions by means of the road from San Francisco over the summit of the Bell Springs Mountain, elevation 4100 feet above the sea level. After the first rains the road is impassable for motors and even horse-drawn vehicles, traffic on the route being limited to saddle and pack animals. At Dyerville an ascent of 3937 feet begins up and down grades as high as thirty per cent to the summit, a distance of forty-six miles. The descent, up and down grades exceeding twenty per cent, occupies a distance of twelve miles and ends at the foot of ‘Rattlesnake Grade,’ 2686 feet below. The high altitudes on the route afford magnificent views of the surrounding country in all directions, though the average tourist would no doubt gladly forego the scenic advantages of the Bell Springs Mountain to travel a less strenuous route. The terror of the Bell Springs Mountain, however, in the near future will exist only in memory; the pioneer road of Northern California will be superseded by the Coast Line of the new highway system.”

But all this cheerful prospect for the future could not shorten the Bell Springs road one foot or reduce its frightful grades a single inch so far as we were concerned. It lay before us with all its terror and mystery and it was an even gamble whether the heavy clouds would break away or the drizzle settle down into a steady rain. We tried to realize what a thirty per cent grade was really like; we had passed twenty and possibly twenty-five per cent slopes on our trip. “But a thirty per cent grade,” said the dismayed lady member of the expedition, “that’s one third of straight up. Will any car do that?” She was assured that most cars could accomplish this feat if working well and under favorable conditions, but in a rain—the possible consequences were not pleasant to contemplate.

We descended to breakfast in a mood of gloomy indecision. It seemed imperative for us to leave Eureka in any event. We had instructed our driver to be ready at eight o’clock and he was on hand with his usual promptness.

“Will she do a thirty per cent grade?” I asked jokingly, knowing his unwavering faith in the Pierce.

“She’ll do anything she can get traction on,” he said, “but in the mud—” So his thought was the same as our own, but what was the use pursuing an unpleasant subject?

“We’ve four wheel chains, in any event,” I said and the big car glided forth as calmly as if an unbroken boulevard stretched to the metropolis.

As I look back at it now, I must admit that we committed an act of egregious folly in setting out on this trip in face of what looked like an all-day rain. If it had been an all-day rain we might have been marooned many days in these mighty hills, if, indeed, we had not met with deadly disaster of some sort. Even as it was, we had occasion for real anxiety more than once, as will appear in due course of my story. We felt that if the outlook grew more threatening we could stop at Fortuna, another small wooden town twenty miles distant, where fair accommodations may be had.

The twenty miles proved over the best of roads through a level, well-improved country, and when we drove down the main street of the village we were rejoiced to see that the sky had lightened somewhat and the rain almost ceased. A garage man still farther reassured us. “Going to clear off,” he declared in response to our query on weather probabilities as our gasoline tank was being filled to the limit. “O, yes, it would be an ugly job if it should rain, but it ain’t going to rain,” which cheerful assurance we accepted and following his directions proceeded on a road which, besides its real danger in wet weather, proved to afford no decent accommodations for over fifty miles.

Just beyond Fortuna we passed a large, deep pool in the Eel River which is said to afford unequalled sport for fishermen, King Solomon, steel-head, and mountain trout being taken in large numbers even by inexperienced anglers. A number of summer cottages have been built here and the place shows increasing popularity as a summer resort.

We found the new state highway usable between Alton, four miles farther on, and Dyerville, thus enabling us to avoid the hills via Rio Dell and Pepperwood, which have some heavy grades ranging up to twenty-five per cent. The new road was pretty rough and soft in places, as no surfacing had yet been done. A fine new bridge across the Eel was building near Alton, but it was not yet open and a very tortuous detour through deep sand was necessary. Beyond the river we continued for many miles through closely standing redwoods—great columnar trees which would have excited our wonder and admiration to a greater degree had we not seen the more imposing forests of the north.

At Dyerville, a wretched-looking little hamlet of half a dozen buildings, we bade farewell to the new highway. It had been completed some distance beyond this point, but a gap of thirty miles remained to be bridged before it could supersede the Bell Springs road. The new highway follows the south fork of the Eel River and gradually rises until it joins the present road at Cummings, elevation 1414 feet, sixty-nine miles from Dyerville. This will entirely avoid the Bell Springs Mountain and eliminate a climb and descent of nearly three thousand feet. Construction was in progress at the time of our visit and the new bond issue insures the completion of the work, which may be accomplished before my book sees the light. Tourists of the future, with rarest exceptions, will speed over the new boulevard and the Bell Springs road will fall into disuse. We shall always be glad, however—now that it is safely over—that circumstances forced us to climb the rugged mountain, since from its slopes and summit we beheld some of the wildest and most beautiful panoramas to be seen in all California.

Heavy work began immediately after we crossed the river at Dyerville. A long grade zigzagged up the slope of the mountain, closely following the Eel for several miles and affording many magnificent panoramas of the river and rugged ranges of wooded hills that guard it on either hand. Splendid pines crowded closely up to the narrow road and did much to lessen the nervous effects of the long, sharp slope at our side. At the turns of the road, however, there were frequent open spaces which allowed views of ever-increasing grandeur as we ascended; the river, far below, lay in still, green pools or dashed in foaming rapids among the lichen-covered boulders. Beyond were endless hill ranges, cloud-swept here and there, for, though the rain had ceased, the sky was still threatening. A long descent brought us to the railroad; then the road swung away from the river and followed the crest of the ridge between the Eel and South Fork for the remainder of the day. Another long, heavy grade confronted us with two sharp “hairpin” turns which some facetious wayfarer has dubbed “The Devil’s Elbow,” and we recalled that we had passed a hill in the Scotch Highlands where a like honor had been paid to His Satanic Majesty. We thought the latter bad enough at the time, but it was tame when compared with the twists and grades of this far western trail. The long wheel base of our car made it necessary to back up at several of the turns, an operation which excited lively anxiety on part of our lady passenger. It was disquieting, indeed, to see the rear wheel of the car approach within a foot or two of the high bank at the side of the turn with a twenty per cent slope looming ahead, but the car responded so beautifully to the skill of the driver that she gradually became reassured.

The forest gradually dwindled and beyond Fruitland—there was little except the name on the map to indicate the existence of such a place—we came into a barren, desolate-looking region with little vegetation except scrub trees and shrubs, through which the road kept a general ascent, though there were occasional downward dips. At the foot of one of these we ran on to a most disconsolate party in a Ford which had been stalled for some hours for lack of gasoline. Only one car had passed and the occupants had declined assistance on the ground that they feared a shortage of the very necessary fluid themselves.

“Then I hired a horse,” said the driver, “of the man on the hill yonder and one of our ladies visited the three other houses in this little valley, but couldn’t scare up a pint of gas at any of them. I’ll pay you any price you ask for a gallon or two.”

We freely confessed that price wasn’t the consideration—we feared a shortage ourselves on some of the hills before us. Our car was gravity-fed and it might fail on a steep grade with several gallons in the tank. Still, the obligations of the Golden Rule weighed heavily upon us in such a case and we granted our friend in distress the two gallons he so earnestly prayed for. We declined the dollar he tried to force upon us on the ground that we were not helping him out for worldly gain—we only hoped we wouldn’t run short ourselves.

He assured us that it was only ten miles over a level road to Harris, where he had carelessly neglected to replenish his supply, but I fear that his predicament warped his judgment of distance. It proved a full twenty miles with many steep pitches which caused us no little anxiety and which continually increased, for Harris seemed constantly to recede as we cautiously proceeded over a road that varied from fair to very bad. There were many stony stretches where the car scrambled over good-sized boulders still wet from the mists that at intervals swept across the mountains. It was a wild and lonely road, with no sign of human habitation for many miles; only the long views across the rugged hills redeemed it from dreary monotony.

At one point four fine does contemplated us curiously and with little sign of fear, at a distance of perhaps sixty yards; they, too, seemed to realize that woman’s rights in California are even extended to deer—there is a heavy fine for killing a doe. We were told that these hills are alive with deer, but the exceedingly rugged nature of the country makes hunting very difficult. The road constantly grew more tortuous and arduous and we made many remarks about the tendency of Harris to recede as we advanced—we even began to wonder if we might not have passed it unaware. It was, therefore, with no small relief that we beheld Harris finally heave in sight, but our reviving spirits dropped when we saw a sign posted on the hotel, which is all there is of Harris, “Positively closed for the season,” and could detect no sign of life about the place. Was our expected gasoline supply to fail here with the Bell Springs Mountain now directly before us? A reconnoissance of the place, however, discovered the man in charge, who gleefully filled our tank with forty-cent gas and our apprehensions vanished into thin air.

While we were engaged in this transaction, a Ford car paused and began to disgorge its contents under a group of trees near by—said contents consisting of six people and two dogs, and an endless array of camping and other impedimenta was strapped to the machine at every available projection, almost concealing it from view. An old-fashioned, tin-covered trunk was fastened at the rear and several grips were piled about the engine hood. The wonder of it was that the flimsy-looking car could stand up under it all, even though two of the passengers were rather small children and the dogs not very large. The party proceeded at once to build a fire; a warm dinner and hot coffee were evidently on the program—which reminded us that we had neglected to provide ourselves with our usual lunch on leaving Eureka. The man who supplied gasoline assured us that we would find an excellent hotel still open at Bell Springs, twelve miles farther on; we ought to reach it in an hour, he thought.

“O, yes, some pretty stiff going, to be sure, but nothing to worry that wagon of yours, I guess,” he said.

It proved a steep, stony, winding, wicked dozen miles with one thirty per cent pitch, according to our road maps, all of which drawbacks were mightily accentuated in our minds when the rain commenced again shortly after we left Harris. Tire chains were brought into requisition and after a steady grind of an hour and a quarter, enlivened by no end of nervous thrills, we paused with steaming radiator in front of the attractive-looking Bell Springs Inn. It was about two o’clock and twenty-three miles from Laytonville, where we proposed, rather dubiously, to stop for the night.

“Here’s our only chance for luncheon,” I announced—a matter which a very early and very light breakfast at Eureka no doubt served to keep in my mind.

“I don’t want any lunch,” came from the rear seat. “I want to get out of these terrible hills just as quickly as we possibly can. Whatever induced you to choose this awful road? You always seem to find the worst possible.” To all of which no adequate answer came to my mind.

With a lingering look at the hotel, I gave the word to proceed, not without considerable misgiving, for it was still raining and the information which we had of the road was far from reassuring. True, it was down hill most of the way, but my experience was that it is easier to climb a muddy grade than to descend one. The descent began shortly after leaving the hotel and for some miles we proceeded with extreme caution down narrow switchbacks with sharp turns, some of which required backing. The scenery was magnificent, rugged slopes covered with gigantic pines which often came up to the roadside—but I confess that we did not pay enough attention to the scenery to warrant much descriptive writing. The road grew muddier with the incessant rain and as we came to the steep pitches of Rattlesnake Grade, the car showed an unmistakable tendency to skid, despite the chains on the rear wheels. Few things are so likely to make one’s heart sink as the feeling that a heavy car is not entirely under control on a steep grade, barely wider than the wheels, with a sharp turn on the verge of a precipice every few rods. We stopped and applied chains to the front wheels as well, but even then a tendency to slide on the grades was still noticeable and extreme caution was necessary. And yet the showers had only “greased” the road; I do not believe any car could negotiate these grades in a heavy rain.

Fortune, however, favored us for once, since the rain ceased just as we were wondering if we might not have to spend a supperless night on the road—which we certainly should have been compelled to do had conditions grown much worse. There was a rustic hotel at Cummings, at the foot of Rattlesnake Grade, but in order to carry out our plans for the following day, we felt it advisable to push on to Laytonville, though we realized that night would overtake us before we arrived. We had consumed nearly three hours in covering the twelve miles from Bell Springs, but we hoped to make better time over the thirteen miles still remaining—which we did, as the road was quite dry, though excruciatingly stony and rough. There was one heavy grade, but in the main we followed a canyon with a gradual descent. The road was so narrow that we found great difficulty in passing a belated car which we met, and so rough that a snail’s pace was enforced much of the way.

The canyon was heavily wooded; vines and shrubbery, rich with autumn colorings, grew in rank profusion. Despite the lateness of the season, there were occasional blooms. We saw dogwood and wild rosebushes bearing both blossoms and bright red berries. Huckleberries were common, as were also the pale red clusters of the honeysuckle, and manzanitas. The air was fragrant with the odor of balsam pine and we felt that it would be a delightful run had we not been tired, cold, and hungry. But very tired, cold, and hungry we were and the last few miles done in the dark before we reached Laytonville were long ones, indeed. It was a time when a truly comfortable inn would be as welcome as ever in our wanderings, but we did not hope for such a blessing in Laytonville, an isolated little village of about a hundred people.

The hotel proved a large, wooden building, much larger than the size of the place would lead one to expect, but comforts and conveniences, besides bed and board, were not to be found in its brown, clapboarded walls. No private bath was to be had and no heat in the rooms, though the night was frosty cold. There was a big wood-stove in the public room which was surrounded three or four deep by a crowd made up, I should judge, of village loafers, though there were a few commercial men among them. It was certainly not very inviting for a lady guest and the moving-picture show with which we usually beguiled away dull evenings, was non-existent in Laytonville. Evidently the best program for us was to eat our supper and go to bed. The evening meal, served at a common table in country style, proved far better than we expected. In fact, the pastry was so excellent that our lady manager must needs have the recipe, which the flattered cook was delighted to supply.

After supper I stumbled along the unlighted street to a little general store, hoping to find a hot-water bottle to mitigate the rigors of the climate a little, but the queer old backwoodsman storekeeper declared,

“I’ve heern of them things, but I never had no call for one.”

The store was the queerest jumble I ever saw, groceries, clothing, dry goods, hardware, patent medicines—just a little of each—and endless odds and ends that looked as if they had been twenty-five years accumulating, were piled in hopeless confusion—there seemed a chance of finding anything but what you wanted.

“Yaas,” the old fellow admitted, “thar’s another store in the town, just down the street—just down the street.”

The other store was closed, but the next day we found it a large, well-stocked mercantile concern which evidently did a big volume of business.

Returning to the hotel, I lounged half an hour about the lobby, listening to the conversation, which I soon found was almost wholly made up of humorous anecdotes of the old storekeeper whom I had just visited and who appeared to be a character of considerable local notoriety—an honest, simple-minded old fellow fitter for almost anything than managing a business.

If it was hard to get into the chilly bed at the Laytonville, it was still harder to get up by twilight in the frosty air of the room and wash in ice-cold water—for there was no call bell and we neglected to leave orders for hot water. We rushed through with the process, however, thinking we would hurry down and thaw out by the big wood-stove, but we found it stone cold and the room deserted—and it is safe to say that thousands of cords of wood were rotting within a mile of the inn. The lady indignantly marched into the kitchen, somewhat to the consternation of the powers that presided there—but it was not long until a big fire was roaring in the lobby stove.

A sign above the counter admonished the wayfarer thirsting for information to “Ask Dad—he knows,” referring to the portly landlord, whom we found very jovial and accommodating. He apologized for lack of fire in the morning with some remark about the unreasonable “stumpage” charge of the people who owned the forest about the place and he also deprecated the unwillingness of the owner of the building to do a number of things that would conduce to the comfort of the guests.

When we asked “Dad” about the road to Westport and from thence along the coast, we found he did “know,” all right, for he assured us that it was far better than the main highway to the south. And so we resolved to get back to the sea, for the morning had cleared beautifully and gave promise of a day full of light and color. It is twenty miles to Westport and the road runs through a fine forest all the way, though the redwoods, which are quite common, are only saplings five or six feet in diameter. There is only one grade of consequence—the long descent to the coast, which affords many glorious views of the ocean through occasional openings in the trees.

Westport is a small, bleak-looking lumber town, evidently in a state of decline; there was nothing to detain us there and we were quickly away on the road to the south, which keeps in sight of the ocean for more than one hundred miles, though we were told that it was not then practicable for motors for more than half that distance. The excellence of the road for perhaps thirty miles was an agreeable surprise, a smooth, well graded natural dirt surface very much like a well-dragged Iowa road at its very best—fine in dry weather, but to be avoided when it rains. We skimmed merrily along, enjoying the salt tang of the breeze and the beauty of Old Ocean in one of his happiest moods. We ran along rather barren-looking headlands, which at times carried us to wonderful vantage-points from which we beheld indescribably glorious views of the sea, resplendent under the pale blue sky of a perfect day. The breeze had swept away the lingering ghosts of yesterday’s fog, revealing a shimmering expanse of water, jade-green near the shore and running through all the shades of green and blue into a deep violet in the far distance. Looking toward the sun it shimmered and coruscated like a sea of molten silver, while along the whole irregular shoreline around the detached rocks and beneath the bold, rugged headlands it rippled in long white breakers or dashed into wind-swept spray. The air was redolent with the fresh, pungent smell of the sea—how we enjoy it when on land and detest it when on shipboard!—and everything conspired to make us glad that we had made the necessary detour to catch this glorious stretch of Mendocino coast.

Fort Bragg, of some three thousand people, seventeen miles from Westport, is the largest and best-appearing town, with handsome public buildings and good-looking shops—clearly the chief business and trading center of this section. It is the terminus of a branch of the Northern Pacific Railroad leading to the main line at Willits, which is doubtless the secret of its superiority to the other coast towns we passed through. It is larger than Ukiah, the county seat, which probably holds the distinction because of its more central situation.

Beyond Fort Bragg we crossed several shallow, emerald-green inlets at the mouth of creek or river, both the descent and the climb a sharp scramble. Three or four of the larger inlets were dammed to a considerable depth and logs were floated from the interior to a busy sawmill near the sea. The coast, however, with the exception of a few picturesque little groves near the sea, is quite denuded of timber. There are a good many farm-houses, some of very comfortable appearance, but the agricultural resources of the country did not impress us as very great. The reddish brown soil did not give any special indication of fertility and live stock was not much in evidence. Directly on the coast in places there is a wide belt of sand dunes which are slowly shifting landward and encroaching on the farms a little each year.

Mendocino City, the next place of any size, is a rather bleak, un-American-looking village of a thousand people. Here we paused for lunch at a large, rambling, wooden hotel which must have been a lively place in the old lumbering and stage-coach days. Now it seemed almost deserted and the well-worn floor of its dismantled bar-room told of the loss of a goodly number of patrons who were formerly wont to come here to assuage their thirst. It was with some misgivings that we entered the place, but the sight of the cleanly, kindly-faced landlady reassured us; and we fared far better than we hoped for in the scrupulously clean dining-room—which led us to again remark on the extremely rare instances where we have found slovenly service or niggardly meals in even the lesser California hotels. The young man who acted as clerk, when he heard that we expected to reach Cloverdale for the night, advised us not to go as far on the coast road as Greenwood, which we planned, but to turn inland at Navarro, six miles north—a change which he declared would save us some bad road.

We had not gotten far from Mendocino when we agreed that it was not especially desirable to pursue the coast road any farther than necessary, for we found it quite unimproved, dusty, and rough, with very steep grades—especially the one leading out of the deep canyon just south of the town. After that, every few miles we met with sharp plunges into deep, narrow canyons, and steep, dusty scrambles out of them, with some very rough going between.

At Little River and Albion, large sawmills were in operation. The former village is a pretty little place, with rose-embowered cottages and apple orchards laden with red and golden globes. The schoolhouse is situated in a group of fragrant pines and everything combined to give the village an air of Arcadian quiet and contentment. Perhaps much of this was only in our imagination, but we did not disturb our pleasant impressions by making useless inquiries.

The coast beyond the village was exceedingly rugged but beautiful and inspiring. Bold, wooded headlands rose above us, a deep violet sea lay in quiet beauty beneath, and we even had to admit that the inlets, with their steep plunges and rattle-trap bridges, were beautiful. Here is, indeed, a country for our artists to discover; they will find the color and rugged beauty of Monterey on a wilder and vaster scale. In fact, we often remarked that the whole coast from Greenwood to Crescent City, with its colorful ocean, its rugged, rock-bound shoreline, its giant forests, and a thousand other sights of beauty and grandeur, offers a field for the landscape painter such as scarcely exists elsewhere in the world.

Albion seems the busiest place we have yet discovered. Its excuse for being is a great sawmill which employs several hundred men and which is supplied with logs by the river and a railroad extending twenty miles into the hills. The shriek of the saws, the hiss of steam, and the rumble of the locomotive, reached us before we descended the steep slope to the inlet upon which the mill is located, and gave us an intimation of the principal activity of the town. There is a pretty little bay into which the river flows and a substantial wharf from which the finished lumber is shipped by schooner. In crossing the river we passed directly through the sawmill yards and had a near view of its giant band-saws traveling through the mighty logs at an astonishing rate.

Two or three miles beyond Albion we came to Navarro, which we found a “deserted village,” indeed, for not a human being could be found about the few gray, weatherbeaten shacks to give us the information we desired about the road. A little farther on, however, a friendly signboard made it clear that this was the point where the hotel clerk had advised us to turn inland. The coast road had been growing continually more wretched and the deep canyon before us did not look very inviting. Besides, it was getting late and to go on to Greenwood would bring us to Cloverdale after dark. We therefore bade a reluctant farewell to the glorious ocean—it seemed as if we could never tire of it—and struck the sandy trail that led sharply into a jungle of small trees and shrubbery. The deep sand and the apparent disuse of the road caused us some apprehension. The road, however, gradually improved as it descended to the Navarro River, passing several poor-looking fruit ranches on the way.

The grade out of the canyon is one of the longest and heaviest that we covered during our entire tour. It has few turns, climbing the canyon side in a straight slope several miles long, at places the rise exceeding twenty-five per cent. It seemed as if it would never end and we grew very apprehensive of our gasoline supply, which we expected to replenish at Greenwood, now eliminated from our route. I confidently looked for the engine to stall for lack of fuel on some of these appalling grades, and whiled the time in imagining what course we should pursue if this happened. I did not reach any satisfactory conclusion, nor have I yet, for we did not meet another car on this road and the nearest gas station was twenty miles away. But it didn’t happen and we replenished our supply at one of the little towns. There were three or four villages on the fifty-mile stretch between the coast and Cloverdale, all of them rather dilapidated and forlorn, though there was much activity at Boonville, where a huge sawmill was in operation. None of the numerous ranches along the road looked very prosperous and perhaps half of the houses were deserted and falling into ruin. This, we were told, did not necessarily mean that the owner had starved out. A great many of them, after “proving up” their claims, had sold out to the large ranchers, who were buying immense tracts in this country.

There was much pretty scenery along the way, rich with autumnal colorings which we might have admired more had we been more comfortable ourselves. But the road was rough and dusty and the wind had risen to a perfect gale which chilled us for all our wraps and blankets. A car was ahead of us for the last several miles and almost strangled us with dust clouds so dense that even trying to pass was out of the question.

We rejoiced with exceeding joy when eight miles from Cloverdale we came into the new state highway, smooth and dust-free. Our chance friend at Crater Lake Lodge had especially admonished us to stop at McCray’s when we reached Cloverdale, and had noted on our maps, “Very comfortable country inn two miles out of Cloverdale.” So we kept a sharp lookout, for a “very comfortable inn” seemed about the acme of our earthly desires at that particular time. We had no difficulty in finding our proposed haven, for a huge, rambling frame building bearing the legend, “McCray’s,” loomed up directly by the roadside and we were received more like expected guests of the family than commercial patrons.

There was a decided atmosphere of home about the rambling old place—originally the McCray Homestead—and one very quickly falls in with the mood of good fellowship that rules everybody connected with the inn. We were ushered into the family sitting-room with its roaring, open fireplace—welcome, indeed, after our ride in the piercing wind—and were cordially greeted by Father McCray, a six-foot-two giant whom the younger generation designated as “Pap.” He introduced us to the other guests, mainly members and close friends of the family, for the season was over, though the inn is kept open the year round. They all proved very pleasant, jovial people and we soon learned how very different are the relations between the McCray’s and their guests from those between the ordinary hotel and its patrons. The inn, we learned, is conducted on quite an extensive scale during the summer, when two hundred people can be entertained in the main building and adjacent cottages. There is a large, well-appointed club-house just across the road, where the guests may pursue dancing and other amusements to their hearts’ content, and there is usually enough going on to thoroughly dispel ennui on part of anyone.

But the crowning feature of McCray’s is the meal service; verily, it brought back recollections of mother at her best in boyhood days on the farm. The delicious conserves, never found in any mere hotel, are made from California fruit right on the premises and nearly everything used is grown on the farm under Pap’s watchful supervision. A few words with Pap are all that is necessary to convince you that no detail of service or entertainment escapes him and that he has more pride in earning the approval of his guests than a mere desire to get their money. We liked McCrays of all degrees and already have plans for a trip in that vicinity again, with the inn as one of our stopping-places. Our only suggestion for improvement is that a locked garage will make the average motorist feel easier than the open shed in which our car was stored during our visit.

The next morning we were away on an easy run to the metropolis through the famous Santa Rosa Valley, with its endless vineyards now laden with their purple harvest. Everywhere were signs of activity on part of the vineyard people and we met many loaded wagons and motor trucks carrying the grapes to the numerous wineries in this vicinity. But I will not write in detail of our last day’s run, since I have covered this country fully in my previous book, “On Sunset Highways.” We reached San Francisco in the early afternoon, having been absent from the golden gate city for nearly a month and our strenuous but delightful and inspiring pilgrimage through the mighty hills and lovely vales of Northern California and the Oregon country was at an end.