"No, indeed," came from the rear seat. "It was simply horrid—I don't ever want to come near Mount Wilson again as long as I live!" and relief from the three-hours' tension came in a burst of tears.
But she felt better about it after a little as we glided along the fine road leading through Altadena into the orange groves and strawberry beds around Glendale, and purchased a supply of the freshly gathered fruit. But even to this day I have never been able to arouse a spark of enthusiasm when I speak of a second jaunt up Mount Wilson, for which I confess a secret hankering.
The road has been vastly improved since the time of our trip, which was only two months after it was opened to the public. The turns have been widened, more passing points provided, and no one need be deterred from essaying the climb by the harrowing experiences of our pioneer venture.
While not a mountain trip in the sense of the ascent of Mount Wilson, the road through Topango Canyon will furnish plenty of thrills for the nervously inclined—at least such was the case at the time we undertook the sixty-eight mile round by the way of Santa Monica and Calabasas, returning by the San Fernando Boulevard. At Santa Monica we glided down to the beach and for some miles followed the Malibu Road, which closely skirts the ocean beneath the cliff-like hills. It was a magnificent run, even though the road was dusty, rough, and narrow in places, with occasional sandy stretches. It was a glorious day and the placid, deep-blue Pacific shimmered like an inland lake. The monotone of color was relieved by great patches of gleaming purple a little way out from the shore, due to beds of floating kelp, and by long white breakers which, despite the unwonted quiet of the sea, came rolling in on the long sandy beaches or dashed into silvery spray on the frequent rocks. We passed a queer little Chinese fisher village—which has since disappeared—nestling under the sandy cliffs; most of the inhabitants were cleaning and drying fish on the beach, the product, we were told, being shipped to their native land. We were also astonished to meet people in fantastic costumes—girls with theatrical make-up, in powder and paint; men in strange, wild-west toggery; and groups of Indians, resplendent in feathers and war-paint. All of which puzzled us a good deal until we recalled that here is the favorite field of operation of one of the numerous moving-picture companies which make Los Angeles their headquarters.
They have since constructed several sham villages along this beach road and in the near-by hills. One of these make-believe hamlets we can testify bears a very passable likeness to many we passed through in rural England.
We followed the road to the entrance of Malibu Rancho, a bare tract stretching many miles along the sea and controlled by a company which vigorously disputes the right of way through the property. There is a private club house on the ranch and no doubt the members do not care to be jostled by the curious motorists who wander this way in great numbers on Sundays. Threatening placards forbade trespassing on the ranch, but a far stronger deterrent to the motorist was a quarter-of-a-mile stretch of bottomless sand just at the entrance. Two or three cars just ahead of us attempted to cross, but gave it up after a deal of noisy floundering. Malibu Rancho had little attraction for us, in any event, and our only temptation to enter its forbidden confines was doubtless due to the provoking placards, but it was not strong enough to entice us into the treacherous sand. So we turned about, retracing our way three or four miles to the Topango Canyon road.
I might add here in passing that the county has since secured the right to build a public highway through Malibu Rancho after a long legal warfare following condemnation proceedings. It is to constitute a link in the proposed ocean highway between Los Angeles and Ventura.
It was Sunday and hundreds of cars thronged the beach, raising clouds of dust, and we frequently had close work in passing those we met. We agreed that Sunday was a poor day for Malibu Beach road, as contrasted with the quiet of a former week-day run. The Canyon road branches abruptly to the right, ascending a sharp hill, and then dropping to the bed of a clear little creek, which it follows for a considerable distance. Some twenty times we forded the stream winding in and out among a tangle of shrubbery and trees. There were many grassy little glades—ideal spots for picnic dinners—some of which were occupied by motor parties.
Leaving the creek, the road ascends the Santa Monica Mountains, crossing three ranges in steep, winding grades. Much of the way it is a narrow, shelf-like trail with occasional turn-outs for passing. At the steepest, narrowest part of the road over the western range, we met a car; the panicky passengers were walking down the hill, while the driver was yelling like a madman for us to get out of his way. We cautiously backed down the grade to the nearest turn-out and let him crawl past, with his passengers following on foot—a sample of sights we saw more than once on California mountain roads. Such people, it would seem, would do well to stick to the boulevards. Crossing the wooded valley between the ranges, we came to the eastern grade, which proved the steeper of the two. How our panicky friends ever got over it puzzled us. In the valley we saw a few lonely little ranches and the ubiquitous summer-resort camp.
The ascent of the second grade was not so steep as the descent, which was terrific, portions of it being not less than twenty-five per cent. The sharpest pitch is just at the summit, and we were told that dozens of cars stalled here—many for lack of gasoline. Here we met another car, passengers on foot and the driver trying to coax his engine up the hill. After several futile attempts he got it going, scraping our car with his fender as he passed—we had turned out as far as possible and were waiting for him. One of the ladies declared that they had been touring California mountains for two months and this was the first grade to give trouble. Later we came over this grade from the east, finding it an exceedingly heavy, low-gear grind, but our motor was on its best behavior and carried us across without a hitch.