Stockton is a city with wide streets, an open plaza, and a Courthouse surrounded by a border of green lawn and palm trees. I saw a turbaned Hindoo lying asleep under a palm tree in the afternoon sun on the Courthouse lawn. White men lay asleep near him. It was at Stockton that we saw our first rodeo or round-up. The rodeo is a part professional and part amateur Wild-West show. The cowboys wear their gayest shirts, of red and pink and variegated silks. They wear their handsomest "chaps" or riding trousers, cut very wide, and made of buckskin or of sheepskin with the wool side out. They have on their widest-brimmed, highest crowned sombreros and their most ornately stitched boots. The cowgirls are in brown or grey velveteen, or perhaps in khaki. They, too, wear broad-brimmed hats and riding boots with spurs. Some of them wear red silk handkerchiefs knotted about their necks. We saw such an exhibition of cattle lassoing and of roping and throwing steers, of rope spinning and of trick riding as we had never before seen. Doubtless it is an old story for Californians, but it was all new and interesting to us. The most interesting feat was the roping and throwing of a steer. Two men ride down the steer, and as one of them approaches the beast he slips off his horse and catches the steer with a lightning stroke around his neck. He endeavors by casting his weight on the beast's neck and by dexterously twisting it to throw the animal. Usually he succeeds; but sometimes a stubborn beast refuses to be taken by surprise, plants his feet firmly, and lowers his dangerous horns. Then follows a locked struggle, and it is a serious matter for the cattleman if his hold slips.
1. and 2. Cowboy Rodeo, Stockton, Cal. 3. Hereford Bull, Wyoming. 4. Cowboy Rodeo, Laramie, Wyoming.
CHAPTER VII
When we left Stockton we felt that the great adventure had really begun. We were now to traverse the Lincoln Highway and were to be guided by the red, white, and blue marks; sometimes painted on telephone poles, sometimes put up by way of advertisement over garage doors or swinging on hotel signboards; sometimes painted on little stakes, like croquet goals, scattered along over the great spaces of the desert. We learned to love the red, white, and blue, and the familiar big L which told us that we were on the right road. Had we taken the Lincoln Highway literally from ocean to ocean, we should have driven direct from San Francisco to Stockton. As it was we saw California first, and came in at Stockton.
It was a bright, sunny day, the thirteenth of June, when we left Stockton for Sacramento. We drove along an excellent asphalt road, through grain fields and orchards, the almond orchards being loaded with their green, velvety fruit. It was late afternoon when we reached our hostel, the Sacramento Hotel. Sacramento is even to-day more or less a frontier town. Judging by appearances, there are more saloons in proportion to the other shops of Sacramento than in any other town in California, unless it be San Francisco. The town is well shaded. One sees many wooden buildings of old-fashioned architecture, the old mansard roof being much in evidence. A most pleasant spot in Sacramento is the beautifully kept park around the fine State House. Its walks are shaded by a fine row of palms, another of magnolias which were in full bloom, and yet another of beautiful old cedars. I liked the "Sacramento Bee" building which has two interesting bas reliefs of printers of the Middle Ages working a hand press. Sacramento is very hot in summer, its stone pavements and asphalt streets radiating heat like an open oven.
1. Philips Hotel on Lincoln Highway near Lake Tahoe. 2. View on Lake Tahoe. 3. Looking up Yosemite Valley. 4. Upper Yosemite Falls.