ARCADE, SAN MIGUEL
From Photograph by Dassonville
A few miles south of San Miguel we forded the Salinas River, a broad but shallow stream winding through a wide, sandy bed. Two men with a stout team of horses were waiting on the opposite side to give a lift to the cars which stalled in the heavy sand—for a consideration, of course—and their faces showed plain evidence of disgust when we scrambled up the bank under our own power. In the wet season the Salinas often becomes a raging torrent and a detour of several miles by the way of Indian Valley to Bradley becomes necessary. At Bradley we again crossed over a long bridge and the road then swings away from the river and runs through the wide level wheatfields of the Salinas Valley. And for the rest of the day, except when crossing an occasional hill range, we passed through endless wheatfields, stretching away to the distant hills. On our first trip the fields did not look very promising, owing to protracted drouth, but a year later we saw the same country in the full glory of a magnificent crop. In these vast tracts harvesting and threshing are done at one operation by huge machines drawn by steam engines. A farmer told us he had seen the valley covered with grain that was above his head when he walked in it, and he was a sizable fellow, too.
There is nothing at Jolon except a country store and two or three saloons—typical western drinking-resorts with a few lazy greasers loafing about. There is a good-looking hotel here, but we preferred our usual open-air luncheon under a mammoth oak—there are hundreds of them above Jolon. Just beyond we crossed the Jolon grade, which had some of the steepest pitches we had yet found. The road took us through beautiful oak-covered hills and at the foot of the grade we came back to the Salinas River. We had been using a map issued by a prominent automobile manufacturer, which showed San Antonio Mission just across the river at King City. Of course we should have to visit this, even if we were late in reaching Monterey. A farmer of whom we inquired for the old mission at King City looked at us blankly.
"Old mission," he echoed, "I don't know of any in these parts."
"But our map shows San Antonio Mission at King City."
"Well, your map is wrong, then—San Antonio is back over the grade six miles from Jolon." And one of the ladies declared that Father Nevin at San Miguel had said something of that sort—why didn't we pay attention at the time? We recognized the futility of any attempt at argument under such circumstances and prudently held our peace. But it was clear enough that San Antonio was not at King City.
"Oh, well," we finally decided, "we shall have to come back this way, in any event, for we have missed La Purisima near Lompoc and we have determined to see them all."
Soledad is a dozen miles farther on the road and near there "Our Lady of the Solitude" was founded in 1791. Crossing the Salinas again over a ram-shackle bridge—the flood swept it away a year later—we came into the street of the little village, which consisted of a few cottages, several stores, and a blacksmith shop—we remember the latter particularly because we hailed the worthy smith and inquired for the mission. He met us with a counter query: