[From the Mountains to the Sea.]
Although the trip so briefly described above was taken on New Years' Day it must not be thought that it is a trip specially confined to that day. Snow generally is to be found on the north slopes of Mount Lowe from the end of November (after the first rains) until the middle of May, so that thousands of visitors may enjoy this unique trip. Stopping over night at Alpine Tavern, one may revel in the snow in the morning and be photographed at an elevation of 5,000 feet, taking a sleigh-ride to Inspiration Point, where he may stand or sit and look over the blossom covered orange and lemon groves and flower gardens of Pasadena. In three-quarters of an hour he may be driven in a carriage near those very orchards and gardens, where snow has fallen but twice in eighteen years. After dinner, a little over another hour's ride brings him to the shore of the semi-tropical Pacific, and here he may enjoy a swim, or, if he prefers, stand on the beach and watch a hundred people sporting in the warm breakers. This is no unusual experience for the delectation not only of those who are robust and strong, but even the delicate may, with perfect impunity, make such a trip, and thus be enabled to write to Eastern friends, shivering in the rigorous cold of an Alpine winter, of the pleasures of this almost unbelievable three hours' journey "from the mountains to the sea."
Outlook from one of the Bedroom Windows, Alpine Tavern, Mount Lowe, March, 1896.
[DAWN ON MOUNT LOWE.]
Looking southward to the sunlands,
On the ocean's ebb and flow,
Keeping watch o'er Echo Mountain,
Dwells the spirit of Mount Lowe—
In the glowing light of noonday,
In the midnight calm and lone,
Gazing outward from the summit
Like a ruler from his throne.
At his feet sits Pasadena,
Framed with fields of fruit and grain
Where the valley of San Gabriel
Slopes in beauty to the main—
Pasadena, decked with roses
And with gems of gold and green,
Resting on the landscape's forehead
Like a crown upon a queen.
And the "City of the Angels,"
On her hills of bronze and gold,
Stands amidst her groves of olives
Like Jerusalem of old;
With the purple Sierra Madres
Smiling downward from the dawn,
As Mount Hermon smiled on Zion,
In the ages that are gone.