It was a lowering evening as we left after our first visit. The sky had become overcast by a dark cloud rolling in from the sea and raindrops began to patter on the ruin about us. "I am sorry to have the weather interfere with your pleasure trip," said Father O'Sullivan, "but I know that you yourselves would welcome the rain if you understood how badly it is needed here." And so we cheerfully splashed over the sixty miles of wet roads, reaching Los Angeles by lamplight.
RUINS OF CAPISTRANO CHURCH BY MOONLIGHT
From Photograph by Putnam & Valentine
We made other pilgrimages to San Juan Capistrano under more favorable weather conditions, for the road is a lovely one. I have already told of a trip through the charming country to Santa Ana through the orange, lemon, and walnut groves that crowd up to the road much of the way. Beyond Santa Ana there are fewer fruit trees; here grain fields and huge tracts of lima beans predominate. The latter are a Southern California staple, and it was some time before we learned what they were planting with wheeled seeders the latter part of May. The beans usually mature without rain or irrigation—a crop that seldom fails. The country in the main is flat and uninteresting between Santa Ana and Capistrano, but there is always the joy and inspiration of the distant mountains. On one shimmering forenoon we saw a remarkable mirage in this vicinity—the semblance of a huge lake with trees and green rushes appearing in the distance. It receded as we advanced and finally faded away. Its startling distinctness forcibly recalled the stories we had read of travelers being deceived and tormented by this strange apparition in waterless deserts.
IX
SANTA BARBARA
San Gabriel and San Fernando we had already visited in our rambles out of Los Angeles. The next link in the chain is Ventura, seventy-two miles to the north. From there we planned to follow El Camino Real beyond the Golden Gate to Sonoma, where San Francisco de Asis, the last and remotest of all, passed its short existence—and it proved in all a journey of nearly two thousand miles before we returned to the City of the Angels. A day or two was spent in preparation, studying our maps, packing our trunks, and tuning up the car for the rough roads and stiff grades that it must soon encounter. We were in high anticipation of a glorious trip, for had we not already felt the lure of the open road in California?—and when an old-time friend and his charming wife accepted our invitation to accompany us, our cup of happiness was full.
It is not necessary to say that it was a beautiful day when we finally set out; all California days are beautiful after the first of May and call for no special remark. Leaving Hollywood, with its gorgeous banks of bloom, we crossed over Cahuenga Pass into San Fernando Valley. Of this I have written elsewhere, but it looked even better than when we visited it last; the barley fields were maturing and the olive and apricot groves promised a generous crop. Along the road the roses were in bloom and here and there new houses were going up. Lankershim and Van Nuys are clean, modern towns joined by the splendid new boulevard and show many signs of making good the numerous sweeping claims which they advertise on billboards near at hand. Beyond Calabasas we entered the hills and pursued a winding course through a maze of wooded canyons. On either hand were magnificent oaks, which often overarched the road. Under one of the noblest of these—four or five feet in diameter, with a spread of perhaps one hundred and fifty feet—we paused for our noonday lunch, while the birds among the branches furnished a concert for our benefit. This hill country was but thinly populated and the little ranches which we occasionally passed had anything but a prosperous look. It has shown a marked improvement in many ways since the completion of the new state highway, work on which began shortly after the time of which I write.
The long easy loops of the Canejo Pass led us from the hills to the beautiful Santa Clara Valley, affording an unrivalled view as we descended. This grade is four miles long and, while not very steep at any point, is dangerous because of its many turns and precipitous sides, which in places drop almost sheer for hundreds of feet. A notice at the top restricts speed to four miles per hour, which, if obeyed, would require just an hour for the descent—an example of the ridiculous extremes of many of the "speed limits." A Ventura garage man told me that a few years ago a driver made a wager that he could "do the Canejo" at thirty miles an hour—a piece of folly that resulted in his death as well as that of a companion who was riding with him. We ourselves had ocular demonstration that the descent might be dangerous, for we saw parts of a wrecked car near the middle of the grade and also the tackle used for hauling it up the steep bank down which it had tumbled. The Canejo has since been paved and the grades and sharp turns so greatly reduced that one may do twenty-five miles per hour with far less risk than twelve under the old conditions.
In the valley the road was straight and level for many miles and bordered much of the way by giant eucalyptus trees. The eucalyptus, so common in Southern California, is a wonderfully quick grower and serves some very useful purposes, especially for piles in sea water, since the teredo will not attack it. On either side of the road were vast fields of lima beans; one tract, we were told, comprising more than four thousand acres. Here again we saw a distant mirage—waves of the sea apparently sweeping over the low, level ground before us. We soon came in sight of the ocean and caught a glimpse of Oxnard—the beet-sugar town—a few miles off the main road.