But while we were moralizing about the fate of the mission we were running into some dreadful road. We decided on the advice of a farmer not to retrace our way to Soledad village, but to follow the road on the west side of the river to the crossing at Gonzales, some ten miles distant. It proved a rough, narrow, winding road and we managed to lose it once or twice and came very near stalling in some of the sandy stretches. But the series of views across the valley from the low foothills along which we coursed atoned for the drawbacks, and the bridge at Gonzales brought us back to the main Salinas highway. This proved an excellent macadam road and its long, smooth stretches enabled us to make up for the numerous delays of the day. Salinas, a modern, prosperous-looking town of some four thousand people, is the commercial center of the vast wheatfields surrounding it. Here is located the largest beet-sugar factory in the world and fruit-raising is also a considerable industry. Our run had been a long one and we were quite weary enough to stop for the night, but visions of Del Monte and Monterey still lured us on. We quickly covered the twenty miles to the old capital, the road winding between the glorious hills on either side. These were clothed with a mantle of velvety grass variegated with pale blue lupines and golden poppies and studded with sprawling old oaks—a scene of rare charm in color and contour. We reached the Del Monte just at dusk and were glad that darkness partly hid our somewhat unkempt and travel-stained appearance.
CYPRESS POINT, MONTEREY
From Original Painting by Thos. Moran
XI
THE CHARM OF OLD MONTEREY
"I say God's kingdom is at hand
Right here, if we but lift our eyes;
I say there is no line nor land
Between this land and Paradise."
So sang Joaquin Miller, the Good Gray Poet of the Sierras. What particular place in California he had in mind I do not know, but if I were making application of his verse to any one spot, it would be Monterey and the immediate vicinity. Perhaps I am unduly prepossessed in favor of Del Monte, for here I came on my wedding tour many years ago, and I often wondered whether, if I should ever come again, it would seem the same fairyland and haven of rest that it did on that memorable occasion. I say "haven of rest," for such indeed it seemed in the fullest sense after an all-day trip on a little coast steamer from San Francisco. It was my first voyage and the sea was as rough as I have ever seen it; great waves tossed the little tub of a boat until one could stand on deck only with difficulty. Perhaps I am not competent to give an opinion about standing on deck when during most of the trip I perforce occupied a berth in the ill-smelling little cabin. When the Captain called us to dinner we made a bold effort to respond and I still recall the long, boxlike trench around the table to keep the dishes from sliding about. One whiff of the menu of the "Los Angeles" satisfied us and we retired precipitately to the cabin. The boat was twelve mortal hours in making the trip. When we landed the earth itself seemed unstable and it was not until the following morning that "Richard was himself again."