We may admit that it was with considerable misgiving that we left Grants Pass in the early morning for Crescent City on the sea. We had been discouraged in the attempt by the best posted road authorities in San Francisco, who declared that the trip was too difficult to be worth while, and the pleasant young lady who was all there was in sight when we called at the Portland Automobile Club was even more emphatic in her efforts to dissuade us.

“Don’t try it,” she said. “The road by the way of Crescent City and Eureka is a rough mountain trail, with grades as high as thirty-eight per cent and the rains are likely to catch you at any time from now on,”—all of which, we may remark parenthetically, proved true enough.

Over against this was the assurance of a veteran motorist whom we met at Crater Lake Lodge and who had just come from San Francisco over this route, that there was nothing to give the driver of a Pierce Forty-eight a moment’s uneasiness; though the road was very heavy and rough, a staunch, powerful car would have no difficulty. We were also reassured by the garage owner at Grants Pass, who declared that the natives thought little of the run to Crescent City and that a motor stage made the trip nearly every day in the year, though sometimes in bad weather, he admitted, the nearly obsolete but always reliable horse had to give them a lift.

We learned enough, however, to feel sure that considerably heavier work in mountaineering than we had as yet done awaited us, and this naturally caused us some uneasiness. At times when such feelings seized us concerning roads traveled by some one almost daily, we tried to realize the sensations of the pioneers, who confronted these awful solitudes without road or chart and at best with only treacherous savages to guide them over well-nigh impassable trails through mountain and forest. Such reflections made our misgivings about roads and routes seem little short of cowardly, and perhaps at times rather coerced our better judgment.

We covered forty miles out of Grants Pass with little hint of the road terrors we expected to encounter before the close of the day. The road, fair to excellent, ran at first through cultivated fields and apple-laden orchards; then it entered rounded hills, where the forests, fragrant with balsam pine, were interspersed with lovely green valleys dotted with numerous well-improved ranches. There were signs of considerable activity in lumbering and we passed two large sawmills along the way.

At Waldo, a tiny village forty miles from Grants Pass, we recalled that the famous Oregon caves were only twelve miles eastward and regretted that our schedule did not permit a day’s delay to visit them. From here a picturesque trail leads to these so-called Marble Halls of Oregon, deep in the heart of the rugged mountains. These strange caves were discovered some fifty years ago by a hunter who pursued a wounded bear into a cavern in the mountain. The caves have not yet been fully explored, but there is known to be a series of lofty vaulted chambers rivaling those of the Mammoth Cave and hundreds of smaller apartments, with walls, ceilings, and pillars in old ivory and lighter colorings, all as delicately sculptured as though designed and executed by master artists. The roar of subterranean rivers is heard, seemingly overhead, and again beneath one’s feet, echoing from mysterious caverns as yet unentered even by the adventurous guides.

Beyond Waldo our real mountaineering began, and an incident occurred that caused us no small perturbation nor, looking back, can we feel that our uneasiness was unwarranted. Here a stranger walking along the road hailed us and as we paused in response to his signal, asked us to give him a lift to the next town. As he looked fairly reputable and carried no baggage, our first thought was that he might be a ranchman of the vicinity, and as there were four unoccupied seats in the big car, it seemed churlish to refuse, despite whatever distrust we might have of a stranger in such a lonely wilderness. So we bade him climb in beside the driver and began the ascent of the stupendous grade leading over the first great range of the Cascades. For nearly ten miles we followed the rough, stony road which flung its narrow loops around canyon and headland, often with a deep valley alongside. The steep slopes above and below us were clad with mighty pines and through these we caught occasional glimpses of an ever widening prospect. It was only when we reached the summit of the range that the full magnificence of the scene broke upon our astonished vision. A vast panorama of rugged peaks—“a sea of wood in wild, unmeasured miles,” to quote the poet of the Sierras—stretched way inimitably in the thin, clear atmosphere until it was lost in a violet-blue haze.

Our enjoyment of the wonderful scene was not unmixed, however, for by this time it had become clear to us that our self-invited passenger was a lunatic. He had talked much wild and silly chatter about a wonderful invention of his and a great fortune awaiting him in San Francisco, and given evidence by other unmistakable signs that he was more or less demented. It did not seem practicable to attempt to get rid of him at the time and we began the descent with increasing uneasiness as he continued to harass the driver with his wild talk. And if ever a driver needed to keep his head clear it was during this same descent; the road, a mere shelf in the rock, crawls along the precipitous mountainside while a vast abyss yawns below with a mad, boulder-vexed stream at the bottom. It was made far more trying to the nerves by the absence of trees or shrubbery to screen the precipice—a bare foot or two lay between our wheels and a sheer drop of say half a mile.

Our guest noted our perturbation and, turning to the lady, who had shrunk into the smallest possible space in the end of the capacious seat and was studiously refusing to even look at the road, he said,

“Gets on your nerves, doesn’t it? Looks mighty scaly, for a fact!”

It was not made the easier by the knowledge that a lunatic sat beside the driver, harmless, maybe, but we had no way of knowing that he was. In any event, when he wasn’t looking I slipped the Colt automatic, which had been our almost forgotten companion since we started, beneath our car robe, with the resolve that if he should attempt to lay hands on our driver on these appalling roads, there would be something doing. Fortunately, except for his incessant chatter, he was quite inoffensive and we looked forward anxiously to the next station on the road, where we determined to drop him, willy nilly.

It was a long, slow crawl to Patrick’s Creek, to which an occasional signboard directed us, for our cautious driver averaged only seven or eight miles per hour, and, however anxious we were to get rid of our passenger, it was quite enough. The scenery was inspiring and picturesque but the road was more or less nerve-racking every mile of the way. Passing-places were only occasional, but, fortunately, we met no one after leaving Waldo.

Patrick’s Creek Hotel proved a small ranch house close by the road where meals are served and auto supplies sold to tourists. As usual, we had our lunch, but were glad to supplement it with one of the landlady’s home-made pies, which proved excellent indeed. For once we regretted having brought our lunch, since they told us that it was their practice to fry one of the numerous young chickens running about the place, “while you wait.” Here we had the peculiar sensation that comes from paying fifty cents per gallon for gasoline—our top notch, I believe, except in Longwy, France, some years before.

“I get it by parcel post in sealed five-gallon cans,” said the innkeeper, who is also forest ranger in this district, “which is the only way the stage people will accept it for shipment.”

“Do you get much patronage here besides meals?” we asked.

“In the hunting season we do,” he replied, “It’s a famous hunting ground. We could go up on yonder mountainside and start a dozen deer in an hour.”

“You ought to have plenty of venison at your hotel,” we ventured.

“Not a bit of it,” he replied in disgust. “The game law forbids serving it for pay and you are not even allowed to have any portion of a deer’s carcase on hand longer than ten days; you can’t sell it or ship it out of the county—there isn’t much sport in killing the poor brutes under such conditions. Still, hunters come here and kill the limit of three bucks, but most of the venison goes to waste.”

When we resumed our journey our passenger, with considerable rambling talk, expressed his willingness to continue with us to San Francisco and even intimated that we might get a slice of the great fortune he had in prospect there; he evidently did not object to the car or the company and was quite willing to become a permanent member of our party. We succeeded in making him understand that we were not running a stage and that we felt we had done our share in the thirty-five-mile lift we had given him. We offered him a little financial assistance, if needed, but it was indignantly declined. He would soon have wealth beyond the dreams of avarice. And so we bade him a glad farewell, with the mental resolve that we would pick up no more unknown pedestrians. We were afterwards hailed by one or two knights of the road who, no doubt, thought us stingy snobs as we sailed past them in sublime indifference—but we had had our lesson. We saw added reason for such a course when we read later in a San Francisco paper that an autoist had been held up and robbed in the mountains by two foot pads whom he had generously given a ride.

Leaving the inn, we followed the yellow road which we could see far ahead, zigzagging up the rough mountainside before us. It led to another seemingly endless climb over steep, stony grades along the edge of precipitous slopes. A short distance from the hotel we saw a doe eyeing us curiously from the chaparral a few yards from the roadside. She seemed to realize that a lady deer is safe in California, even in the hunting season, for she showed little signs of fear. Had she been legitimate game we might probably have killed her with the Colt.

The climb over a stony road—enough to try every rivet in any car—continued for several miles. On coming to the summit, we did not immediately descend, but continued for many miles, with slight ups and downs, along the crest of the Cascades—or is it the Coast Sierras?—the ranger said the point is still in dispute as to where one ceases and the other begins. It was a narrow, precarious trail that we followed, with only thin shrubbery to screen the forbidding slopes at its side—but what a magnificent and inspiring vista it opened to our delighted vision! Beneath us lay a vast, wooded canyon, thousands of feet in depth, and beyond it stretched an infinite array of pine-clad summits, seemingly without end, for the day was clear as crystal and only a thin haze hid the distance. They are building a new highway that will supersede this mountain trail and future tourists will gladly miss the thrills of the precarious road, but they will also miss much of the grandeur and beauty; to see the mountains one must climb the mountains to their very crests. We shall always be glad that we saw the wild and inspiring vistas from many of these old-time roads which will pass into disuse when the improved highway comes.

Again we angled slowly down into a vast valley and climbed two more ranges before the cool, fresh ocean air struck our faces. To tell of the beauty and charm of the scenes that presented themselves to our eyes would be continual repetition; they were much like those we had encountered ever since entering the mighty hill ranges.

We were conscious of a sudden and overpowering change when we came within a dozen miles of the destination of our day’s run. Here we entered the Del Norte redwoods and many were the exclamations of wonder excited by the majesty and loveliness of these virgin forests. Glorious individual trees, ten to twenty feet in diameter, towering two to three hundred feet above us, crowded up to the roadside, standing so thickly that it was impossible to see ahead for any considerable distance. But most wonderful was the rank—almost tropical—appearance of the undergrowth. The ground was green with velvet moss, and huge ferns with fronds several feet in length, intermingled with the metallic green of the huckleberry bushes. Many other shrubs and plants unknown to us joined to make up this marvelous tangle of greenery, the like of which we had never before seen. Occasionally we came upon a fallen tree cast down by storms of perhaps a century ago, but the dead giant had become the abode of riotous life, for every foot of his great trunk was covered with a rank growth of fern and shrub. We even saw good-sized trees springing out of these long-dead redwoods. We had seen the redwoods of Tuolumne, Santa Cruz, and Mariposa, larger trees but utterly lacking the beauty of the riotous greenery of the groves of Del Norte.

A clear, green river spanned by a high iron bridge served to enhance the charm of the scene. We paused to drink of the ice-cold waters of a little roadside waterfall and to felicitate ourselves that we had not been dissuaded from the Crescent City road. It is a rough, steep, and dangerous road, we may admit, but this glorious forest repays one a thousand times. The accumulation of leaves and pine needles deposited through the centuries had made the soil beneath the trees a deep, soft mould, and to make the road passable it had been “corduroyed” for several miles with redwood slabs, which slowed the car down to a snail’s pace. This was no hardship, however—surely one who does not expect to pass over the road again would never wish to hasten through such delightful scenery.

It was still four miles to Crescent City when we came out of the great forest and for this distance we ran through rather poorly improved farm lands. The ocean, which flashed into view as we approached the town, was indeed a welcome sight after our long exile in the hills. For many miles as we approached the town the trees at frequent intervals had borne signs calling attention to the merits of the Bay View Annex, with the constant reiteration of “hot and cold water” as the chief attraction. So we sought the Bay View, a rambling, wooden building looking out on the harbor and were forthwith assigned to rooms in the “Annex” at the rear. While our quarters were far from elaborate, they were clean and comfortable, though the much-vaunted hot and cold water proved principally cold.

We had leisure to look about the town before supper and while there was little in the plain, straggling, wooden village to excite our interest, we learned that Crescent City has big ambitions and high hopes for the future.

“We have one of the best harbors on the whole western coast, about equally distant from San Francisco and Portland,” said a shopkeeper from whom we made a few purchases. “It is deep enough for ocean-going vessels, so that little dredging will be necessary, and only needs protection of a sea wall to offer safe shelter for a whole fleet of ships. Congress has been interested in the project and only last year a committee of several of the leading members came here to investigate. All agreed that the government could well afford to spend five million dollars to improve the harbor and that the resources of the country about here warrant an appropriation. If this is done and the railroad carried through from Grants Pass, Crescent City will become a city, indeed. There are two hundred billion feet of standing timber within a radius of two hundred miles from Crescent City, most of which would be converted into lumber and find an outlet through Crescent City Harbor. The rich Rogue River Valley, now at the mercy of the Southern Pacific Railroad, will gladly seek a cheaper outlet for its products and though it may not be apparent to a stranger, the agricultural products of Del Norte County are very considerable. Our butter, for instance, is considered the finest in the country and the Palace Hotel at San Francisco will not serve any other. Its excellence is due to the splendid grazing lands watered by an annual rainfall of sixty-eight inches. This also gives you the secret of the wonderful greenness of the great redwood forest which you so admired when coming to our city. Salmon and other fishing and packing are already very extensive and can be increased indefinitely. There are immense deposits of copper and iron ore between here and Grants Pass—particularly in the neighborhood of Waldo. Marble and other building stone are to be found within easy shipping distance. We have the finest summer climate on the Pacific Coast and splendid beaches, so that Crescent City is bound to become more and more of a summer resort—in fact, a great many people come here now in the summer time. Do you think our hopes for Crescent City’s future are ill-founded? Isn’t it reasonable to believe that when this harbor is improved and a railroad completed to both Grants Pass and Eureka that we may fairly expect a city of fifty thousand people or more?”

We did not take issue with our enthusiastic informant, though, indeed, it was hard to imagine a teeming city on the site of the lonely little village; but perhaps the same thing might have been said of Portland or Seattle fifty years ago. A start has really been made toward improving the harbor, for an initial appropriation of three hundred and ninety thousand dollars has been made by the War Department, to which Del Norte County has added the proceeds of a one-hundred-thousand-dollar bond issue. The chief industry of the town at present is lumbering, one company employing five hundred men, but the output is limited by the indifferent shipping facilities.

Crescent City has another ambition which is well worthy of realization—to have a large section of the magnificent forests near the town set aside as a national park. It would, indeed, be a calamity to our whole people to have all of this great grove wiped out by ax and fire, as has occurred near Eureka. The redwood groves already reserved do not and can not match the Del Norte forests in beauty and suitability as a natural playground. Here one can camp under the giants trees and live near to nature indeed, nor will he be troubled by such pests as flies, mosquitoes, scorpions, rattlesnakes, and the like, for they are almost unknown in this section. From our own observation we can heartily second the declaration of a local writer to the effect that—

“The importance of this proposed Redwood Park to Humboldt and Del Norte Counties, the State of California, and to the whole of North America, even to the whole world, can scarcely be estimated. Within comparatively a few generations the giant redwood forests of California will be a thing of the past; the woodsman’s ax and the ravenous sawmills will have swept them away, even as the great pine and hardwood forests of Michigan and Wisconsin have been wiped out of existence. “A billion or more feet of these giant forests preserved and protected for all time from destruction will form a priceless heritage for future generations—one of the greatest attractions California will then have, for it will bring pilgrims from all over the world. It will not be many generations before all the virgin forests on the North American Continent, save those protected in national and other forest reserves will be wiped out of existence.”

It would be hard to express the chagrin which we felt on looking from the window of the Bay View Annex on the morning following our arrival to find a heavy fog, almost bordering on a drizzle, enveloping everything and even shrouding the near-by ocean from view. We were told that such fogs often lasted a week or more, so it did not seem worth while to wait another day at the Bay View in hope of clear weather. We set out with the forlorn hope that the fog might clear away as the sun rose higher.

For the first four or five miles out of the town we skimmed along over the most perfect boulevard of our tour—a wide, perfectly level, hard, smooth, dust-free surface, yet a road which cost nothing per mile and never had an hour’s work expended upon it by any man. It was the hard, firm, ocean beach which we traversed, so close to the sullen gray water that it lapped our wheels as we glided onward. And lo, we beheld, skipping joyously along on this same beach our unwelcome passenger of the previous day. He had evidently begged or bought transportation from Patrick’s Creek to Crescent City and was now away on a hundred-mile hike to Eureka, unless he could work his nerve on some passing car as he did on us. Nothing daunted by his rebuff at our parting, he cheerfully signified his desire to continue with us for the day, but we bade him hail and farewell without slackening the car’s sharp pace.

Our fine beach road ended all too soon in a wild plunge through the soft deep sand to the mainland, where we almost immediately began the ascent of a stiff, long grade, winding with many sharp turns through the closely standing pines. About midway a large car was parked with a broken axle, leaving barely room to squeeze past. Time and again as we ascended the mighty slope we came out upon bold headlands which on clear days afford endless views of the ocean a thousand feet or more below. We could hear the angry swish of the sea among the broken rocks at the base of the cliff, but the gray mist hid it from our eager eyes. It was, indeed, a disappointment, but we found some compensation as we climbed still higher on the fern-banked road. Near the summit we again entered the mighty redwoods which towered hundreds of feet above us. We were rising above the fog and the weirdly glorious effect of the sun’s rays as they shot through the thin vapor among the hoary trees was as fascinating as it is indescribable. The forest monarchs seemed literally ablaze with pale fire. The dull gray fog merged into a silvery vapor which floated among the titanic trunks and branches and long shafts of light radiated from their tops like a mighty halo. As we continued to ascend the air gradually cleared and a sky of the intensest blue shone above the trees—but it was only due to the altitude, for, coming out on a headland, we beheld the envious fog still shrouding the ocean far below. The sullen booming of the surf and the screams of sea birds came weirdly mingled from the unseen deeps, giving a strange sensation of mystery.

Back into the mighty forest we turned and for many miles followed the winding road, closely bordered by the giant trees. The corduroy on this road was in much better repair, some of it being new and made of closely laid square slabs. Here, again the riotous greenery beneath the trees delighted and amazed us. Fern fronds six feet long were common and moss, shrubbery, and vines flourished in wild profusion everywhere. We emerged on an open headland covered with bronzed fern and scattered shrubs, and strained our eyes for a glimpse of the silver sea through the lightening mass of vapor and we were rewarded with a faint shimmer here and there. Then came more miles of redwoods crowding the road so closely that we found difficulty in passing another car which met us here. The forest was strangely silent; we saw nothing of bird or animal life and only the boom of the ocean when we happened to come near the coast broke upon the uncanny stillness.

Again we came abruptly into the open and a long, sinuous descent brought us to Requa, a forlorn-looking little hamlet on the broad inlet of the Klamath River. They told us that half the people of the village were Indians and those whom we saw wore white man’s clothes and had the appearance of modest prosperity. Salmon fishing and two canneries employ the population during the fishing season. The wide, still river is crossed by ferry, a rude barge propelled by a gasoline launch, lashed alongside and capable of carrying three or four cars.

During our crossing our interest was centered on the ferryman’s daughter, a little miss of seven or eight summers, who swung on the chain at the bow of the boat. Utterly unconscious of her picturesque beauty or that she was being observed, she made one of the most delightful studies we had seen in many a day and made us long for the skill to execute a rapid sketch. Her dark olive, oval face was regular and pleasing in features and her cheeks were tinged with red roses from the fresh sea air. Her heavy black hair was woven in a long braid and coiled about her head. She wore a plain slip of a dress and her deft little fingers were working on a head-dress of red and green cambric, which at times she fitted over her raven tresses with the air of a Fifth Avenue belle judging the merits of the latest Parisian creation in millinery. Then she removed it and eyed it critically; evidently it did not meet her artistic ideals, for she ripped it to pieces and began rearranging the brightly colored scraps.

We were so much interested in her beauty and unconscious antics that we forgot all about the broad, green river we were crossing and therefore paused when we had scrambled up the opposite bank to gaze up the valley. We saw a noble stream, gleaming through the thin vapor that hovered above it and sweeping far up the canyon until it vanished in the densely wooded hills. The picturesque valley is included in the proposed Redwood National Park, which the citizens of Northern California hope to see established before the wholesale slaughter of these forests is begun. We ran for a good many miles through a flat, swampy country dotted with reedy lagoons, re-entering the redwoods near the Humboldt County line. We encountered a long, steady ascent with grades up to twenty per cent, which ultimately brought us to the ocean, which we had left for a time. The road, with occasional bends to the inland, followed the shore for the remainder of our day’s run and presented a continual panorama of delightful scenery. The sun was still tempered by the soft white mists and the ocean shone like burnished silver in the subdued light. The shore is exceedingly rugged and in many places out in the ocean were mighty detached rocks upon which the incoming waves broke into white, foaming masses.

The redwoods continued for many miles—mighty, symmetrical trees whose dimensions were hard to realize, but many were twenty feet in diameter and upwards of two hundred and fifty feet in height. It was only by comparison with some small object that their colossal size could be realized; we had grown so used to the gigantic that it palled upon our senses. Often they grew in groups, two, three, or more stems from a single base whose dimensions were simply staggering. We could not contemplate the majesty and beauty of these forest giants without a tinge of sadness—we know that the railroad is daily creeping nearer and that unless prompt measures are taken to protect them the time is not far away when only burned and blackened stumps will show where they stood, as we saw nearer Eureka. We parted company with them as one who leaves a very old and wise friend whom he feels that he may never see again, breathing meanwhile the prayer:

There were gayer colors on our road than the dull browns and dark greens of the redwoods, for along the creeks the maples flamed in autumnal scarlet or glowed with yellow gold in the dark forest aisles. We passed through occasional open spaces, where we found belated wild flowers in full bloom—the purple foxglove, daisies, asters, and, more rarely, wild roses or azaleas smiled on us from the roadside. Not all the trees were redwoods, for we passed through closely standing groves where spruce, hemlock, and other varieties predominated.

The road came close to the shore just before we reached Orick, a small village whose inn is a famous resort for hunters and fishermen, and from a considerable eminence we looked down on Freshwater Lagoon, a fine body of water a mile long, literally alive with wild fowl. It is famous for its fishing, as are Big Lagoon and Stone Lagoon, a few miles farther on. Here the sportsman may take cut-throat and steel-head trout to the law’s limit, often in an hour or two, and all kinds of water fowl are plentiful in season. In this vicinity also, they told us, is the best quail shooting on the Pacific Coast—quite enough to distress a devotee of rod and gun whom circumstances forced to hurry onward. There are splendid camping sites galore along this road, sites which appealed even to ourselves, who were never strongly predisposed to camp life.

Trinidad, the next hamlet, dates from Spanish days, when it had the prefix of Puerto—for it is located on a small but deep harbor, where the early seafarers occasionally took shelter. Remains of the old landing-place may still be seen, but no ships disturb the quietude of Trinidad to-day. There is a rustic resort inn here which caters to summer visitors and sportsmen.

So far the road has been natural dirt, ranging from fair to good, and the grades, though often considerable, have not been at all troublesome to the big car. At Trinidad we caught up with the stage which left Crescent City some time ahead of us, and were interested to find that the cars which make this trip nearly every day in the year were of the same manufacture as our own.

Beyond Trinidad the road had mostly been surfaced and some of it was really excellent. The country, however, for some miles was dismal, indeed. Here was every evidence of a great forest fire of comparatively recent occurrence. Great blackened trunks were still standing, interspersed with stumps which showed that the country had been at least partially lumbered before the fire. The effect was melancholy and depressing, indeed, and brought to mind passages of Dante’s Inferno. A few poor little houses, many of them deserted, were scattered at intervals among the blackened stumps, and there were occasional cultivated patches of ground. No doubt the soil is excellent, but it will be many years before the giant stumps can be cleared away and the great holes left when they are burned or dynamited, filled up. We noted on our maps that we were to cross Mad River and imagined a dashing cataract in keeping with the name. We found the most prosaic of tide-water streams, level and almost stagnant, and the name, we were told, only referred to a quarrel between some early settlers in the section.

As we approached Arcata, fourteen miles by road from Eureka, though only half that distance directly across the bay, the country took on a much more prosperous look. The farm houses were neat with carefully kept lawns, and the well-cultivated fields ran down to the seashore. Arcata is a clean, bright-looking town, due to free application of paint to the wooden buildings, for wooden buildings are almost universal. A new eighty-thousand-dollar hotel was pointed to with due pride and one might do quite as well to stop here as in Eureka.

Beyond Arcata fine, level, dairy land prevails, fit for grazing the greater part of the year, and Humboldt County butter is quite as famous as that of Del Norte. Much of this land was originally forested with redwoods, and its splendid state of reclamation at present indicates that the forlorn, fire-blackened section we passed some miles back may have a future before it, after all. Huge redwood stumps remained along the road, each of them bearing a little garden of greenery flourishing upon the decay. The heavy rainfall of winter and the continual fogs of summer keep vegetation thrifty and green almost the entire year.

The road from Arcata skirts the shores of Humboldt Bay, which is nearly land-locked by a slender spit of sand. It is a good-sized body of water, some fourteen miles long and deep enough for ocean-going vessels, but an exceedingly treacherous coast in the vicinity militates against it as a harbor. A few days before our arrival a large steamer had gone to pieces on the rocks near by and a few months later a submarine and the cruiser Milwaukee, which undertook to rescue it, were both destroyed in this neighborhood.

Our first impression on coming into the business part of Eureka was of surprise to see a city of its size and importance almost wholly constructed of wood. The business blocks were nearly all of redwood, sometimes painted and carved to resemble stone, and the hotels, including the Vance, where we stopped, were of the same material. Of course, this is not so strange when one considers that redwood is by far the cheapest and most accessible building stuff in this region, but it is hard to associate permanence and substantial construction with huge wooden blocks in the business section of the city.

We reached our hotel about four o’clock, having been just eight hours in covering the ninety-four miles from Crescent City, including the half-hour we stopped for lunch—practically the same time occupied by the stages in making the trip. This may seem pretty slow, but it is all one should expect on this road if he adheres to sane and conservative driving. The Vance, despite the rather unfavorable impression made by its wooden exterior, proved well-appointed and comfortable inside. A large, cozily furnished, steam-heated room proved a pleasant haven after a chilly ride—for the wind had blown strongly all day from the sea, and when out of the shelter of the forest, it brought our whole supply of wraps and robes into use. The Vance was the only commercial hotel which we found operating on the “American plan” since leaving San Francisco, and its service throughout was very satisfactory, though its rates could not be classed as cheap. We should say, however, that a thoroughly modern hotel of approved construction would find a fine opening in Eureka.

We found time before dinner to look about the city, which was gaily decorated in bunting and evergreens for an Elks’ Convention to begin the next day. In fact, we had been warned that our lease on our room at the hotel could continue only for the night and our plan of taking a full day’s lay-off at Eureka was thus frustrated. As usual in isolated California towns of any size, the shops and mercantile establishments generally seemed entirely to outclass the population figures, which in case of Eureka are not claimed to exceed fifteen thousand. Like our hotel, the interior of the business buildings was usually much more attractive than the exterior, and it was apparent that the merchants of the town were prepared to take care of all reasonable needs of the inhabitants as well as of transitory visitors. The necessity of this is easily apparent when we recall that San Francisco, the nearest city larger than Eureka, is two hundred and eighty-five miles distant—twelve hours’ ride over the recently completed railway. For Eureka at last has a railway, after having for many years enjoyed—or rather endured—the undesirable distinction of being the largest town in the United States without railroad service. The Northwest Pacific “Scenic Route” reached the town in 1915 and has the distinction, it is said, of being by far the costliest railroad of its length in America, an average of one hundred and thirty thousand dollars per mile having been expended in its construction. For nearly half its length it threads its way through the gigantic canyon of the Eel River, following the stream so closely that it is seldom out of sight. The scenery along this road, a local authority insists, is hardly to be surpassed in the whole country.

“As the train passes over the Eel River Divide, the Pacific, thirty miles distant, is seen, shimmering in the sunlight across a stretch of mighty wooded hills. As the descent along the upper Eel River Valley begins, the views become more and more entrancing. No mountain scenery in the foothills of the Swiss Alps is more beautiful than that which greets the traveler’s eyes along the Eel River.”

Perhaps such a digression on the scenery from a railroad train is out of place in a motor-travel book, but it may be permitted, possibly, in view of the fact that a far greater number of people go to Eureka by train than motor. And those who come by motor, if they pursue the Bell Springs route, will see the same Eel River scenery from even grander viewpoints, since in places the wagon road rises thousands of feet above the railway.

Greater numbers of motor cars will come to Eureka when the new state highway is completed, since the two old roads from the south are as difficult and dangerous as any in California and are considered quite impassable, even for horse-drawn vehicles, when the rains set in. Hence, before the completion of the railroad Eureka was quite cut off from communication with the rest of the world except by the sea and often violent storms rendered even that route precarious. Under such conditions it is marvelous that such an energetic, thriving city could have sprung up. One of the present roads closely follows the coast through Fort Bragg and Garberville, a poorly-kept and little used trail, and the other, farther inland, roughly follows the railroad, crossing the famous Bell Springs grade, which the state highway commission describes as “long the terror of motorists.” The new highway avoids this and will afford a year-round access to the city over safe and easy grades. It will also continue to Crescent City, placing the Humboldt and Del Norte redwoods within easy reach of motorists, all of whom should exert their influence to secure the proposed national park in this section.

Eureka was founded in 1850 by American settlers. The Spaniards appear to have overlooked this harbor and so far as known no ship entered it prior to 1806, when Captain Winship, a fur trader, who learned of the existence of the bay from the Indians, anchored his ship in its sheltered waters. The career of the town has been a quiet one, not even the customary Indian wars disturbing its serenity. There are memories, however, of two distinguished Americans, for Lieut. Ulysses S. Grant was at one time stationed at old Fort Humboldt, slight remains of which may still be seen. It was also in Eureka where the youthful Bret Harte began his career as a journalist—officiating as compositor, printer’s devil, and assistant editor of the “Northern California,” then published in the town. Here he had a rather thrilling experience which might have cost the world one of its rarest literary geniuses—and actually cost him his job on the paper.

During the absence of the editor, he was left in charge of the paper—like Mark Twain under similar circumstances—and, like Mark, he at once proceeded to break over conventions. Outrages of the Whites against the Indians of the surrounding country were then common and were usually winked at by the editor, who thought more of the support of the citizens than the rights of the red man. A particularly cowardly massacre was perpetrated while Harte was in charge of the paper. Just how cowardly may be judged from a letter of one of the offenders, who declared, “We have been searching the mountains, destroying villages, killing all males we could find, and capturing the women and children. We have killed about thirty altogether and now have twenty-eight captives in camp.” No one hated injustice and cruelty more than Bret Harte and in an editorial he scathingly condemned the murderers. This roused the anger of the community and a mob gathered with the avowed purpose of wrecking the newspaper plant and hanging the youthful scribe. Harte showed himself game to the last degree and held the mob at bay with two cocked pistols during probably the longest evening of his life. The timely arrival of a few cavalrymen from the fort probably saved his life, but his love of justice brought him a quick dismissal on the return of the owner of the paper. Perhaps this experience, after all, was a God-send to Harte’s budding genius. Had things gone too smoothly in his first essay at journalism he might have missed the rich experience that came of his nomadic career among the pioneer mining camps and settled down into the quiet ways of a backwoods editor.