Byways Around San Francisco Bay

Part 1

BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY

BY W. E. HUTCHINSON

1915

ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR

DEDICATED TO MY WIFE THE DEAREST YET SEVEREST OF CRITICS

CONTENTS

Sunset in the Golden Gate (Poem) Brook and Waterfall Mountain and Valley Cañon and Hillside Wild-cat Cañon Autumn Days (Poem) Around the Camp Fire Trout Fishing in the Berkeley Hills On the Beach Muir Woods San Francisco Bay (Poem) In Chinatown In a Glass-bottom Boat Fog on the Bay Meiggs' Wharf The Stake and Rider Fence (Poem) Moonlight Mount Tamalpais Bear Creek The Song of the Reel (Poem) The Old Road

ILLUSTRATIONS

On the Road to Strawberry Cañon The Laughter of the Brook Brook and Waterfall The Turn of the Trail Mountain and Valley Sunshine and Shadow Cañon and Hillside The Bottom of the Cañon Wild-cat Cañon The Trout's Paradise Fishing for Brook Trout They have Stood the Storms of Centuries Sea Gull Rock Comrades Among the Redwoods A Chinese Shoemaker In Chinatown The Breaking Waves The Glass-bottom Boat Fog on the Bay Italian Fishing Boats Drying the Nets The Witchery of Moonlight Mount Tamalpais An Uninterrupted View Where the Shadows are Dark On Bear Creek The Old Road It Climbs the Hill for a Broader View Finis

Sunset in the Golden Gate

When day is done there falls a solemn hush: The birds are silent in their humble nest. Then comes the Master Artist with his brush, And paints with brilliant touch the golden west.

The blended colors sweep across the sky, And add a halo at the close of day. Their roseate hues far-reaching banners fly, And gild the restless waters of the bay.

Mount Tamalpais stands in purple 'tire Against the background, Phoenixlike, ornate: Apollo drives his chariot of fire Between the portals of the Golden Gate.

No other hand than His who rules on high, Could wield the brush and spread such bright array Upon the outstretched canvas of the sky, Then draw the curtain of departing day.

Brook and Waterfall

California, the land of sunshine and roses, with its genial climate, its skies as blue as the far-famed skies of Venice, and its pure life-giving air, invites the lover of nature to take long tramps over hill and dale, mountain and valley, and to search out new trails in the rugged mountains.

It is a common sight to see parties of men and women meet at the ferry building, dressed in khaki suits, with knapsacks strapped on their backs, waiting to take the boat across the bay to some of the numerous places of interest. There are plenty to choose from, but most of them go to the same places over and over, instead of searching out unfrequented nooks that give one a feeling of proprietorship when discovered. It is an old saying, and a trite one, that "Familiarity breeds contempt." It is certainly true, however, that we often pass over the familiar and commonplace to go into raptures over some lofty mountain peak, ignoring the gems that lie hidden away at its very base.

There is a quiet beauty in the broad sweep of the valley, a stately majesty in the towering mountains, a restful grandeur in the rounded domes of the tree-clad hills, and an element of strength in the broad sweep of the ocean. One never tires of watching the constant change of light and shade, for they never appear twice alike. But we are in search of unfrequented nooks, the byways that others pass unnoticed, so we leave the prominent to seek out the obscure.

To enjoy the out-of-doors at its best one needs a congenial companion; one who does not tire on the trail nor find fault with the little annoying things that are bound to occur on a long journey, but who, in the silent contemplation of God's handiwork, best expresses his appreciation of its wonderful beauty in silence; for there are times when silent enjoyment of a landscape produces a subtle interchange of thought that speaks louder than words.

Such a one is Hal, more like a brother than a son, and in winding over tortuous trails and climbing the rugged sides of mountains we have become good comrades; bound together by the invisible tie of "Nature Lovers" and the "Call of the Wild," as well as the greater bond of kinship.

One could not begin to tell of the pleasure derived from these rambles over valley and mountain, not to speak of the health-giving exercise in the open air. They are far better than doctors' prescriptions, for they drive the cobwebs from the brain, bring refreshing slumber, a new light to the eye, elasticity to the step, and keep one young in spirit, if not in years.

It was a bright June morning when Hal and I took the ferryboat for Sausalito, then by train to Mill Valley. It was just cool enough to make walking a pleasure, and after the clamor of the city the somber shadows of the forest, with its solitude, seemed like a benediction. On every side the giant redwoods tower hundreds of feet in air, straight and imposing, while the ground, on which the pine needles and crumbling bark have formed a brown mold, is as soft and springy to the tread as a velvet carpet.

The resinous, aromatic odor of the pines, combined with the fresh woodsy fragrance, is like a tonic. Just ahead of us we see a growth of manzanitas, with their smooth purple-brown bark and pinkish white flowers in crowded clusters, standing out vividly against the background of oaks and firs, and we sink knee-deep amid the ferns and blue and yellow lupine. It seems almost sacrilegious to trample these exquisite violet-hooded flowers beneath our feet.

Close to the trail a little mountain brook sings merrily over its pebbly bed, dodging in and out among the rocks, or chuckling in glee as it dashes in mimic fury over some unseen obstacle, as if it were playing hide and seek with the shadows along the bank. And we stop to rest and listen with pleasure to the music of its woodland melody. A song sparrow joins in the chorus with his quaint sweet lullaby, like the tinkling of Venetian glass, his notes as clear and delicate as a silver bell. He evidently believes that singing lightens his labors, for he is industriously gathering material for the new home he is building close at hand aided by his demure mate, who, in reality, does most of the work.

The trail grows steeper and harder to climb as we ascend. We hear the sound of falling water ahead of us, and around a bend in the path, and through an opening in the trees, we come upon a beautiful waterfall pouring over the rocks like a bridal veil.

We drop our cameras and scramble down the rocks, drinking cup in hand, and slake our thirst at this crystal fountain. Was ever a more delightful draught for thirsty mortals than from this little pool hidden away here in this mountain fastness? It is a place in which druids and wood-nymphs might revel, surrounded on all sides by stately trees and moss-grown rocks, fringed with ferns of all kinds, from the delicate maidenhair to the wide-spreading shield variety, bordered with blue and gold lupine (California's colors), and close to the falls, a bush thickly covered with white flowering dogwood blossoms, standing out like a rare painting against the green-and-brown background--a spot to thrill the soul of an artist. Yet how many had ever found this sylvan retreat, hidden away, as it is, from the main highway?

Mountain and Valley

It is hard for us to leave the falls with all their surrounding beauty, and with reluctance we take one last look at this delightful glen planted in the heart of the wilderness, and strike out on the upward trail.

Part 2

At a turn in the path, where it seems as if we were about to walk off into space, we get a glimpse through the trees of Mount Tamalpais. Towering above us with its seam-scarred sides, rent and torn by the storms of centuries, it rears its jagged dome amid the clouds. We can just make out a train of diminutive cars winding a tortuous course in and out around the curves, the toy engine fighting every inch of the steep incline, and panting like an athlete with Herculean efforts to reach the summit. Across the intervening space a hawk wheels and turns in ever-widening circles. We watch him through the glass, rising higher and higher with each successive sweep, until he fades into a mere speck in the distant blue.

Up we climb, until another view discloses the valley below us like a panorama. We creep out to the very edge, and for miles in either direction it stretches away, as if some giant hand had cleaved for himself a pathway between the mountains. We stand spellbound, entranced by the wonderful beauty of the scene, and drink long draughts of the fresh mountain air.

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