THURSDAY, MAY 20th.
Arose early this morning and found the weather not very favorable for our contemplated trip to Mt. Lowe, being cloudy and somewhat foggy, but we concluded to go, so after breakfast the party, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Wyman, Mr. and Mrs. Layfield, Mr. and Miss Barrett, Mr. Kilgore, Mr. Sloane, Mr. Haas, Mr. Crispen, Mr. Denniston, two guests—Miss R. Stradling and Mr. A. L. Bailey—George H. Alfalfa Anderson, and myself, under the escort of Brother Ed. Butcher, of Los Angeles Division No. 111, who is a passenger conductor on the Los Angeles Terminal Road, boarded a car at 10.00 A. M. Eastern (7.00 A. M. Pacific) on the Pasadena and Los Angeles Electric Railway, conducted by W. A. Brown, and started on a never-to-be-forgotten trip to Mt. Lowe.
Out through the suburbs of Los Angeles, with its
beautiful rose-embowered cottages and palatial residences and lawns of palms and tropical shrubbery, on through miles of country districts, rich with groves of golden fruit, through eden—Pasadena to Altadena, where we change cars for another electric road that carries us for about three miles over hill and dale, through ravines and across frightful-looking chasms, but always tending upward, until at an elevation of 2200 feet Rubio Cañon is reached and we are at the foot of the great cable incline, claimed to be the most wonderful cable road in the world, extending from Rubio Pavilion to Echo Mountain, a distance of 3000 feet. It makes a direct ascent of 1350 feet. Looking up at the wonderful construction it seems to almost pierce the sky; its summit is enshrouded in a veil of fog that hides it from our view.
“I don’t quite like the looks of that,” ventures Brother Kilgore, looking over his glasses with a scrutinizing glance, as his eyes follow the great incline up to where it is lost in the fog. “I guess it’s all right; I don’t think we’ll find it as terrifying as it looks to be; anyhow, the proof of the pudding is in eating it, and I for one am going up,” answers Brother Sloane. “Charlie, if you go I will go,” responds his bosom friend and chum, Brother Haas. “There is no danger I will not share with you, and perhaps we can see some mountain goats.”
“Or capture a deer,” adds Brother Denniston, who is keeping pretty close to Miss Stradling, for that young lady looks as though she needs sympathy and companionship in this trying ordeal.
“Do you think it’s safe, Charlie?” quietly inquires Mrs. Wyman of her husband as we start to ascend to the landing where we board the car. “Yes, perfectly safe,” replies Manager Wyman. “Human skill and ingenuity can make it no safer. They claim they never had an accident since the road has been in operation. The cable by which these cars are drawn has been tested to stand a strain of 100 tons, and the cars when loaded do not weigh five tons, so there is no danger at all.” “If I thought there was the least danger I wouldn’t go up,” utters Brother Layfield, “but I know there isn’t a bit.” Mrs. Layfield makes no comment, but clings nervously to the Colonel’s arm. The rest of the party follow without any apparent trepidation with the exception of “Alfalfa,” who looks a trifle pale.
We are all comfortably seated in the “White Chariot” car, which is constructed without canopy or covering, with seats arranged in amphitheatre style, one above the other, facing the foot of the incline, an excellent arrangement for affording an unobstructed view.
The signal is given, the machinery is set in motion, and quietly and smoothly we start on our trip toward the sky.
“Those mountain peaks you see just beyond Rubio Cañon are called the ‘Rubio Amphitheatre,’ ” explains the guide who accompanied the car. “You will notice that as we ascend those mountains seem to rise one after another and follow us.” We did notice them; we were looking right at them and couldn’t help it. It was an optical illusion that was rather startling. We thought at first that the mountains would overtake us, but they didn’t. “This is ‘Granite Gorge,’ ” continues the guide, as we enter a great cut that rears its granite walls on
either side of us and lose sight of the mountains that are chasing us. “The workmen on this road were eight months in hewing this passage through these rocks, and before a tie or rail was laid they had to clamber to these rugged heights and carry their implements with them, and much of the material used in the construction of the road, such as water, cement, and lumber, had to be carried on the backs of burros and on the shoulders of men. This bridge that we are now crossing is called the MacPherson Trestle, and there is no other bridge like it in the world. It is 200 feet long and 100 feet higher at one end than the other. If it were not for the clouds you could obtain a good scenic view from here.” Clouds! We had not thought of it before, so interested were we in the talk of our guide, but we notice now that the sun is shining, and looking up we see no vestige of a cloud in the bright, blue sky above.
Looking again, beneath and beyond us, such a sight meets our gaze as our eyes had never rested on before. A vast white sea of billowy vapor overhangs the great San Gabriel Valley and hides it from our view. This alone is worth the trip to see—an immense heaving sea of clouds, an ocean of fleecy vapor billows that surge and roll and toss as though seeking for a shore of sand and rock upon which to spend their restless force. Halting at the summit of the great cable incline, we find we have arrived at the Echo Mountain House, where we change cars, taking an electric road called the Alpine Division of the Mt. Lowe Railway, which extends from Echo Mountain to Mt. Lowe Springs, where “Ye Alpine Tavern” is located.
As we board the Alpine Division observation car I again cast my eyes over toward the San Gabriel Valley, where a few minutes before we had beheld the battle of the clouds. What a grand transformation! The clouds have been dispersed as though by magic, and lying spread out in the valley 3500 feet beneath us is a panorama of such incomparable and inconceivable beauty and loveliness that we gaze for a moment enraptured, speechless, spellbound, dazed. They must be all looking, for there hasn’t been a word uttered for a minute. I am feasting my eyes on the supreme beauty of the scenery and drinking deeply at the fountain of delight; at the same time I’m trying to count the squares in the city of Pasadena and the orange groves that dot the valley. “It’s all there, but it’s a good ways off,” remarks Charlie Sloane, breaking the spell of silence. “My gracious! isn’t that fine? It beats looking across Jersey through the crown of Billy Penn’s hat,” exclaims George Alfalfa in a guarded tone.
The electric current is turned on, our car starts quietly off, and for four miles we pass over the most wonderfully constructed railway in the world. We do not go very fast—in fact, we would rather not, for taking everything into consideration this is not very good ground for “scorching,” and going at a gentle, easy pace lessens our chances of being rolled a few thousand feet down the side of a mountain. Not that any of us are afraid of being “dumped”; we didn’t come up here to be scared, but out of curiosity to see what it is like, and the more slowly the car moves the better able we are to see and the longer we can look at what we do see.
This entire roadbed, hewn out of the sides of the mountain, forms a solid granite ledge upon which the
road is built, and it is always a towering wall of rock on one side and a yawning chasm on the other. To this there is but one exception, the “Grand Circular Bridge.” From this structure you can look from both sides down into the depths. If you don’t want to look you can shut your eyes.
Professor Lowe has constructed this railway at a cost of many hundred thousand dollars to enable tourists to penetrate the heart of the Sierra Madre Mountain, that they may form some conception of what an isolated mountain wilderness is like. It is all here and ever-present, in boundless, grand profusion—mountains, wilderness, isolation—an awe-inspiring, infinite trinity of grandeur, that almost makes your head swim and your heart stand still. Our tracks shelve the very summit of the sloping walls of mighty cañons, and you can look down 3000 feet into their wooded depths.
We arrive in due time at Mt. Lowe Springs, the terminus of the road, and are 5000 feet above the level of the sea. From here we can see the summit of Mt. Lowe, two miles away and 1000 feet above us. It is intended to extend the tracks to this point in the near future. A bridle path leads to it, and you can make the trip now on the back of a burro. A pathway leads to “Inspiration Point,” half a mile away, from which it is said magnificent views can be had. Our time is limited; we hasten to the famous spring, drink of its ice-cold water, and then visit the homelike, cozy club house, “Ye Alpine Tavern,” and give it a hurried inspection.
Nestling among giant oaks and pines, it occupies a romantic and picturesque location; in style of architecture it is attractive and unique, being something on the order of a Swiss chalet. It is two and a half stories in height, with ground dimensions of 40 by 80 feet; contains 20 bed rooms, a large dining room, billiard hall, and kitchen. It is built of granite and Oregon pine, finished in the natural color of the wood. The design of the main hall or dining room is the most striking feature connected with the construction of the building. Artistically located around the room in uniform order are five cheerful open fireplaces, in the largest of which swings a mammoth iron pot on a huge crane. It is 7 feet high and 12 feet wide. Blocks of granite have been placed in its corners for seats, and over the mantel above it is the somewhat flattering but old-time hospitable inscription, “Ye ornament of a house is ye guest who doth frequent it.” On one side of this mantel is a brick oven of ancient design; on the other side is a receptacle of peculiar and unique construction and suspicious appearance, which no doubt contains the liquid nourishment of the establishment.
“I wonder what they keep in this funny-looking cupboard,” whispers Brother Kilgore in my ear, as we were looking around in the dining room.
“Suppose we look and see,” I reply, as I attempt to open the door. “No, you don’t; it’s fastened. I’ll see who’s got the key,” is the rejoinder as he hurriedly walks away. Passing outside, I notice a number of the party are getting aboard the car, and as I join them the motorman shouts “All aboard.” “Are our people all here?” asks Manager Wyman, as he casts his eyes over the crowd. “Brother Denniston isn’t here. I think he went to Inspiration Point,” replies Brother Barrett. “Nor Brother Kilgore,” I add. “He went to look for a
man with a key.” “I’m here,” says Brother Kilgore, as he emerges from the door of the “Tavern,” wiping his mouth in a suspicious manner; at the same time Brother Denniston and his “company” are seen coming from toward the “spring” and soon we are “all aboard” and “homeward bound.” At one point on our descent three or four mountain goats are seen on the track ahead of us, but on our approach they quickly disappear from sight in the thicket. It is with difficulty that Brothers Sloane and Haas can be restrained from leaping overboard and giving chase. Thirty minutes stop at Echo Mountain gives us an opportunity of visiting the beautiful hotel at this point, the “Echo Mountain House,” which is located on the summit of Echo Mountain and is said to be one of the finest equipped mountain hotels in the world. From its veranda and balcony hundreds of visitors daily view with rapture and delight the wonderful scenery of the San Gabriel Valley and its surroundings. A small cannon fired off on the lawn has a startling effect, and proves that the mountain is not misnamed. The report echoes from peak to peak and then seems to go bounding and tumbling down the cañons and ravines, growing fainter and fainter until it gradually dies away in the distance.
The great “World’s Fair search light,” purchased by Professor Lowe and established on Echo Mountain, is operated nightly for the pleasure and entertainment of visitors. The power of its light is that of 3,000,000 candles and its rays can be seen for 150 miles on the Pacific Ocean. Its beams falling upon a newspaper 35 miles away will enable a person to easily read it. Our time is up, and boarding the “White Chariot” we commence our descent of the great cable incline, reaching the bottom in safety. A photographer is on hand and “pressed the button” on the car and contents.
On our trip to and fro to-day we passed in sight of the beautiful home of Professor Lowe, near Pasadena, and returning I had the pleasure and honor of meeting and conversing with him during the twenty minutes we rode together on the Pasadena and Los Angeles Electric Railway. I was introduced to the professor by Brother Edward Butcher, and we took a seat together. He is a large man of fine appearance and carries himself with the graceful mien of a brigadier-general; his eye is bright and kind, his voice gentle and agreeable, and we are the best of friends in a minute. “Professor,” I remarked, “there are but a very few of the people, I warrant, who ascend that marvelous cable incline, who enjoy the pleasure and excitement of that unequaled ride among the wild, magnificent mountain scenery of your Alpine Division on a comfortable trolley car, that ever give a second thought to the men who endured hardships and risked their lives to even survey a road like that. I have thought of this several times to-day, and would like to ask how you ever induced men to traverse those cliffs and peaks and cañon walls, where a mountain goat can hardly secure a footing?” “Well,” answered the professor, “you know there are no hardships so severe they will not be endured, no risks so great they will not be taken, if only men have a leader to follow and are well paid for following him. Long before a measurement was taken or a stake was driven, when the idea that such a road were possible first entered my mind, I spent many days with only an employed attendant my companion,
in making my way from Rubio Cañon to the crest of the highest peak along the route which you traveled with so much pleasure to-day in less than 90 minutes. I headed every surveying party that went out in the interest of the enterprise. I have personally directed all the operations that have required engineering skill and experience; I have expended almost one and a half millions of dollars, and my work isn’t completed yet.” “That is an enormous sum of money to invest in a venture, or rather an experiment, that you don’t know will pay till you try it,” I ventured to assert, while secretly admiring the indomitable courage and spirit of the man. “Yes, it is a great deal of money,” was the reply, and I imagined that a sigh accompanied the words. “As a financial scheme I believe it will be a failure. I have no hope of ever getting out of it what money I have put in it, but to me this is only a secondary matter. I’ve watched a vague visionary dream grow into a bright reality; I’ve had cherished theories, condemned as insane and impracticable, converted into substantial facts; I have solved the greatest engineering and mechanical problems that ever taxed the brain of man; I’ve won the hardest, toughest intellectual battle that ever was fought; I’ve had an all-absorbing ambition gratified, and I feel that I have, in a measure, got the worth of my money.” As the professor ceased speaking there was a bright look in his eye and a happy expression on his countenance as though it were a great pleasure to reflect on the great work he had accomplished. The car was approaching his destination; he arose to go and extended his hand. As I took it he said, “When you come again you can extend your ride to the summit of the mountain, for I propose to complete the work in a short time; and you must stay longer, for in your hurried trip to-day there is much you didn’t see, and I would wish that you could see it all; goodbye.” The car stopped and he was gone. As he disappeared from view I said to myself, “There goes a wonderful man.”
Continuing a few blocks further we left the car and visited the Chamber of Commerce and spent half an hour among its interesting relics and curiosities. When we reach our train the most of our people are there, the time for starting being almost up. We bid adieu to the kind friends we have made while here, and who did all they could to make our short stay a pleasant one, and at 5.00 P. M. Eastern (2.00 P. M. Pacific) we pull out of the station at Los Angeles bound for San Francisco and the “Golden Gate,” 482 miles away.
We are still on the Southern Pacific’s famous “Sunset Route,” which we have followed since leaving Sierra Blanca. S. P. engine No. 1826 is pulling us, with Engineer Charlie Hill at the throttle. She is fired by E. Homes, who has a hard task on hand, for there are steep grades to climb and our train is heavy. William Perkins is conducting the train; the brakemen are J. B. Freet and F. W. Bunnell. These three gentlemen are brothers of the “Order” and members of El Capitan Division No. 115, of San Francisco. They are members of the entertainment committee from that division and have been selected to run our train that they may be able to look after our welfare. J. C. Fielding, also a member of El Capitan Division and of the committee, is a guest on the train, along with Brother Twist,
of Golden Gate Division No. 364, of Oakland, Cal., also a member of the committee.
Following the course of Los Angeles River as we leave the “City of Angels” behind us, we pass for quite a distance through a fine farming country, where hundreds of acres of barley are being gathered for hay into great heaps and stacks.
“Brother Freet,” I ask, as we sit near the wide-open door of the baggage compartment looking out on the fleeting landscape, “do they feed their stock altogether on barley hay in California?” “Not entirely. What makes you think so?” is the inquiring answer. “It looks so from the fact that in all the arable country we have passed through since entering this State, outside of fruit and flower culture, I have noticed no other product than barley, with the exception of a few patches of alfalfa grass,” I reply. “You are right,” is the response, “so far as concerns that part of the country you have seen; although if you traverse the State from end to end you will see comparatively little of it. There are sections of California where abundant crops of corn are raised, but while it has never achieved distinction as a corn producing State, it is second to no State in the Union in its yield of wheat. The entire area of the State of Indiana would be insufficient to cover the wheat fields of California, which yielded last year almost 40,000,000 bushels; but speaking of barley, cut as it is in a green state after the grain has formed and cured for hay, it makes a valuable and nourishing food for stock, upon which they will fatten without additional grain feed.”
Since leaving Los Angeles our course has been upward, and now as we pass the little station of Fernando, we are close to the San Fernando Range, 25 miles northwest of Los Angeles and over 1100 feet above it. A tunnel one and one-quarter miles in length pierces the above-named range, and into this we now plunge. It is a dark hole, an undesirable place to be; our train runs slowly, and the cars become filled with smoke and gas that is almost suffocating; we do no talking and as little breathing as possible for an interval of ten or twelve minutes, when we again emerge into the open air and sunshine and breathe freely once more. We have left the scenes of agricultural industry behind us and again enter a region of unproductive sterility and aridity. We pass through the little town of Saugus, from which place a branch road runs to Santa Barbara, yet the country don’t improve. We are strongly reminded of the Colorado Desert: alkali dust, glaring sand, stunted sage brush, and cactus on every hand. The elevation here is about 3000 feet higher than the Colorado Desert, but the conditions seem about the same.
Midway between Saugus and Mojave we enter the western border of the Great Mojave Desert, which we follow for several miles; here we are treated to novel, interesting, and remarkable scenery. On the right as far as the range of vision extends stretches the vast Mojave Desert, with its lavish growth of magnificent giant cactus, many of them from 25 to 40 feet in height, with branched and bushy tops, from the centre of which in many cases can be seen protruding an immense pinkish bloom.
This great desert, with its wonderful and peculiar plant life, extends, we are told, away off hundreds of miles into Nevada and Arizona. On the left the scenery is different. You gaze off and across the great Antelope Valley, 80 miles in width, level as a floor and almost devoid of tree or bush. It looks brown and barren, but we are informed it is considered good grazing territory. The grass, though dead and dry at certain seasons of the year, like that of the San Simon Valley in Arizona, retains all its nutritious qualities and flavor, and stock feed upon it with apparent relish.
Owing to unfavorable natural conditions and surroundings, it is hardly expected that we will encounter a very extensive population, but what few people we do meet who are residents of the country are principally employees of the railroad company, around whose stations usually cluster a group of snug and neat-looking cottages built by the company for the use of the men and their families. Good water can be obtained at a reasonable depth, and wind mills are used for pumping. Patches of ground are irrigated and cultivated, upon which are grown flowers, fruit, and vegetables. Our train slows up and stops for water at one of these oases in the desert, and looking out the window I discover that it is quite a town. A number of our people have left the train and are looking around.
Alighting from the train in front of the station I look up and see the old familiar homelike name of Lancaster above the door. Everything bears evidence of thrift and good living, even to an almost empty ice-cream can that sits inside the waiting-room door, and which, with other things, is being inspected and investigated. Time is up, “All aboard” is shouted, we scramble on, and as the train moves off Brother Houston, who is fast in the ice-cream can, came near being left. At Mojave, another thrifty town of considerable size, where connections are made with the Atlantic and Pacific Railway, our train stops to attach a helper engine. After a delay of five minutes we resume our journey, assisted by Engineer Cain and Fireman Curren with engine No. 1808.
As we leave Mojave it is growing dusk, and by the time we reach the summit of the grade and stop at Tehachapi it has become quite dark. This we all exceedingly regret, for we are now about to enter upon the most wonderful and interesting 33 miles of road on the whole Southern Pacific system, where we drop from an elevation of 4025 feet to that of 672. Making the descent of 3553 feet requires an almost continual application of the air brakes, which heats the brake shoes red hot and makes the fire fly. We feel concerned and wish we could see. We know at one time we are going around a sharp curve and at another time pitching down a grade much steeper than usual, and very often we find we are doing both at one and the same time. We look out of the window on one side and see a towering mountain wall, so near you can touch it with your hand; we look out on the other side, and see nothing, only a seemingly illimitable depth, filled with darkness and uncertainty; and this is the grand, picturesque Tehachapi Pass, whose sinuous windings, devious ways, complex maneuvering, and bewildering curves compels the railroad to run over top and underneath itself, forming the extraordinary famous Loop.
We had heard much of it, and we all expected to see it; our only hope and desire now is to get safely away from it and beyond it to straight track and level country once more. All good things must have an ending, and bad things can’t last forever, so the novelty and excitement of our toboggan-like mountain ride and its two hours’ suspense is over as our train stops at Bakersfield, where another change of engines is made.
It is now past midnight in Philadelphia, 12.50 A. M.; at Bakersfield it is only 9.50 P. M., but many of our people are retiring, for it has been a day fraught with pleasure and excitement, wearing both on the mind and body, and we all need rest and plenty of it to prepare us for the approaching morrow. “Captain,” I said, as Brother Perkins came down the curtained aisle of the “Marco,” while I was wrestling with a refractory collar button preparing to turn in, “will you kindly give me the number of the engine that is drawing us and the names of the engineer and fireman? I am trying to keep a record of the engines and crews that handle us, and I don’t wish to miss any.” “Certainly,” is the response; “we have engine No. 1417 that runs to Mendota, 140 miles; the engineer’s and fireman’s names are Cole; the Cole Boys we call them—good, lively fellows.” “With two live Coles in the cab and lots of them in the firebox, I guess we will reach Mendota on time,” came the smothered comment in a drowsy tone from the berth of Manager Wyman.