A Truthful Woman in Southern California

by Kate Sanborn

Yes, it is safe, but there is a spice of excitement about it. I was nervous at first, and seeing that the mule wished to nibble such herbage as offered itself, I had thought it well to humor him. At a narrow space with sharp declivity below, the beast fixed his jaws upon a small tough bush on the upper bank. As he warmed up to the work, his hind feet worked around toward the edge of the chasm. The bush began to come out by the roots, which seemed to be without end. As the weight of the mule was thrown heavily backward, I looked forward with some apprehension to the time when the root should finally give way: I saw now that the mule had fixed his stubborn jaws upon the entrails of the mountain, and expected every instant to see other vital organs brought to light. I dared not and could not move. The root gave way, allowing the mule to fall backward, and startling him with a rattling down of stones and gravel. One foot slipped over the edge, but three stuck to the path, and the majority prevailed. After that I saw it was safer to let my faithful beast graze on the outer edge. All went well until he became absorbed in following downward the foliage of a bush which grew up from below. As he stretched his neck farther and farther down, I saw that he was bending his forelegs. His shoulders sank more and more. There was nothing between me and the sea-level except the mule's ears. By frantic exertions I worked myself backward, and was sliding down behind—too late. The bush broke, causing the mule to fall back forcibly against the inner bank, with myself sandwiched between the adamantine wall of the mountain and the well-shod heels of the mule. The animal, being as much scared as myself, started up the trail at a gallop. I had saved my life but lost my mule. I have no taste for overtaking runaway mules on a steep and interminable up-grade. It is a taste which must be acquired. But then, of course, the mule would turn after his first alarm and tear down to the stable. I resolved to push on in the hope of finding a wider portion of the path, or at least of meeting the animal before he had acquired uncontrollable momentum.

At the very first turn a boy appeared hurrying back with my palfry. The mule had galloped on until he overtook the rest of the party, who had sent him back in haste, while they followed on as quickly as possible.

It flashed upon my mind that the mule understands his business. We imagine, egotistically, that the mule is all the time thinking about us, and that he may take umbrage at some fancied slight and leap with us down the abyss. Now the mule does not care to make the descent in that way. He is thinking about himself just like the rest of us. We are only so much freight packed upon his back.

The foregoing narrative may be exaggerated in some details, but the essential facts remain, that the mule has a healthy appetite and that he looks out for himself.

A little further on I had an opportunity to judge how a passenger would conduct himself if he should be thrown from the trail. At the point where the slope of the mountains is most abrupt, certain repairs had lately been made upon the trail, and a man was now prying large stones over the edge. They rolled and tumbled down, taking wild leaps into the air and plunging from rock to rock. After they disappeared in the woods we could hear them crashing and clattering down the cañon. A small avalanche of broken fragments followed in their wake.

It must have been a fine sight when the blasting was first done in the side of the rocky precipice: when huge masses of rock, half as big as a house, were rent from the side of the mountain and thundered down with frightful crash, cutting off huge trees and shaking the very mountains. And now I will say again that the trail is wide and safe; the slopes on the side are seldom very steep, and the mules could not be pushed over by any available power.

Some people, in fact, prefer the old trail because it is more wild and romantic and not so well kept. The new road has enough picturesque features to satisfy me.

I remember when the valley came in sight again, after half an hour's climbing, the first objects to catch my eye were the storage reservoirs, which dot the valley and are used in irrigation. Their regular shapes and the margins of masonry about them give them, from the mountains, the appearance of mirrors. One seemed almost directly below. Probably it was at least a hundred feet in length. In the form of a rectangle with rounded corners, it was the exact counterpart of a framed mirror. The surface was like polished glass, and trees upon the bank were reflected with beautiful distinctness.

After another half-hour's ride comes a glimpse in the other direction. Through a gap in the mountains we look for a moment behind the hills of Pasadena into the heart of the Sierra Madre. Vistas of mountain-sides are seen on either hand, one beyond the other, the long slope of one slightly overlapping that of its nearer neighbor, offering for our inspection a succession of blue tints, becoming more and more delicate in the distance till they melt into the sky.

The mules care less for visible azure than for edible verdure, and soon carried us by this picture. Far up the trail is a pretty scene upon our own mountain. Suddenly we came out of the cool, wild forest upon a little level spot, by the spring of the mountain stream. Here is an old camp with green grass growing up about the deserted building. After a final winding journey around the steep southerly side of the mountain, came the first full view of the wild chaos of broken ranges toward the desert. Then follows a gradual shaded ascent to the camp. The world has varied panoramas of mountain scenery "set off" by the glitter of snowy peaks. In California there are many accessible summits rising from half-tropical valleys. Mountains which overlook the sea are without number. There may be in America other points from which one may look down upon a "city of homes," and a "business centre" with sixty thousand busy inhabitants. I do not know any spot apart from the mountains of Pasadena where you may put all of these in combination. From the northerly peak of Mt. Wilson to the southerly peak of Mt. Harvard is a distance by trail along the ridge of perhaps three miles, offering a variety of points of view. To the north and east you may look down into a gorge two thousand feet beneath, from which rises on the gentle breeze the mingled voice of brawling brook and murmuring pines. Beyond is a confusion of green mountains, from which a range of white summits rises in the calm distance. Toward the south are solitary peaks with halos of fleecy cloud.