I hardly need say that to-day a broad, easy, paved road swings around the mountain instead of attempting the arduous route of the old trail. The little run between Salinas and Bautista is only a joy ride for driver as well as passengers. But we are none the less secretly pleased that we "did" the nerve-racking old grade—now almost abandoned—for such things are usually done only of ignorance when an easier and safer route is the alternative.
San Juan Bautista's excuse for existence was the mission and now that the mission is a shattered ruin the village still lives on without any apparent reason for doing so. It is one of the least altered towns of the old regime in California—not unlike San Juan Capistrano, which, according to the 1910 census had exactly the same population as its northern counterpart, some three hundred and twenty-six souls. But San Juan Bautista is more somnolent and retired than Capistrano, which lies on the San Diego highway. Sheltered behind the mighty hills, with their formidable grades, it is missed by a large proportion of motorists who go by the more direct route between Salinas and Santa Cruz. Its very loneliness and atmosphere of early days constitute its greatest charm; in it we saw a village of mission times, little altered save that the Indians here, as everywhere, have nearly disappeared. There are many old adobe houses—just how old it would be hard to say, but doubtless with a history antedating the American occupation.
The village surrounds a wide, grass-grown plaza upon which fronts the long, solid-looking arcade of the mission. Through this we entered the restored dormitory and a portly Mexican woman left her wash-tub to greet us. The padre, she said, was old and blind and seldom received visitors. We were disappointed, but soon found this apparently ignorant housekeeper fully equal to the task she had assumed. She led us to the church, which was unique in that the auditorium had three aisles separated by arches—something after the style of many English churches we had seen. It was in use until the great earthquake of 1906, which had cracked the arches, shattered the walls, and left it in such a precarious state that one could scarcely stand within it without a feeling of uneasiness. The walls still showed the original decorations, though sadly discolored—these were done in paint made by the Indians from ground rock of different colors. The original tiles covered the roof, though they were rent and displaced, allowing the winter rains to pour through in places. Early repairs and restoration would preserve this remarkable church, but if allowed to remain in its present state its complete ruin is inevitable. The bell-tower had already disappeared and was replaced by a ridiculous wooden cupola totally out of harmony with the spirit of the mission builders. And yet we can hardly censure the fathers in charge for such structures as this and the angle-iron tower at San Miguel, when we consider the scanty means at their disposal—public funds should be available to maintain these historic monuments.
It was a relief to step from the dismal ruin of the church to the well-kept cemetery, with its carefully trimmed evergreens and flower beds. Here in the old days the Indians were buried, though it is not in use now. Our guide showed us, with a good deal of pride, her flower garden on the other side of the church; most of the flowers and plants, she said, had been collected from the other missions—she had visited all of them except one. Then she led us into the plain—almost rude—quarters of the old priest and showed us the relics of which San Juan Bautista has its share. There was a curious organ which worked with a crank and was sometimes used to call the Indians; there were old books, pictures, and furniture; articles in wrought-iron, the work of the natives under the tutelage of the padres; images from Spain and many rare embroidered vestments. All of these were shown, with evident reverence for the—to her—sacred relics of the olden days. It was a labor of love and we could but respect her simple faith and evident loyalty to the aged priest, who manifestly endured many hardships in his humble field of work.
San Juan Bautista Mission was founded in 1797 by the indefatigable Lasuen, who, next to Serra himself, was the most active force in promoting the work in California. The site was a favorable one and the enterprise was successful from the start, its converts exceeding five hundred in less than three years' time. Attacks from hostile Indians and several severe earthquakes disturbed its earlier progress, but its population went on steadily increasing. Twenty-five years after its establishment there were twelve hundred and forty-eight neophytes and it ranked as one of the most successful of all the chain. The beautiful valley surrounding the town responded luxuriantly to tillage and San Juan was able to assist its sister missions from its surplus.
The present church was completed in 1818 and a curious bit of the record is that the decoration was done by a Yankee—assisted by Indians—who assumed a Spanish name for the occasion. In 1835, the date of secularization, the mission had already begun to decline, the population having fallen to less than half its greatest number. This state of affairs was true of so many of the missions that there is reason to believe that even if the Mexican Government had never molested them, their ultimate extinction would only have been delayed. Semicivilization did not breed a hardy race and the white man's diseases more than offset his improved methods of making a living. The records state that there were only sixty-three Indians remaining at the mission in 1835, when the decree went into effect. At this time the property was valued at about one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The Mexican governor, Alvarado, declared that secularization was a success here and at San Antonio, though nowhere else, but it was a queer kind of success at San Juan Bautista, for all traces of the community disappeared a year or two later.
The village was occupied by Fremont in 1846 and the stars and stripes were hoisted over the mission at his command. Here he organized his forces for the conquest of the south and marched as far as San Diego, as we have already seen.
Out of San Juan the road was rough and dusty, though we came into a fine macadam boulevard some distance out of Watsonville. Here we entered one of the great fruit-producing districts of California; vast orchards of apples, prunes, and cherries surrounded us on every hand. The blossoming season was just past, and we missed the great ocean of odorous blooms for which this section is famous.
Watsonville is a modern city of perhaps five thousand people, the capital of this prosperous fruit and farming district. It is only a few miles from the ocean and the summer heat is nearly always tempered by sea breezes. Its broad, well-paved main street led us into a fine macadam road which continued nearly all the way to Santa Cruz.
Santa Cruz lies on the north bend of the bay, directly opposite Monterey, and is known as one of the principal resort towns of the California coast. Its population, according to the last census, was nearly eleven thousand and I ran across some "boom" literature which claimed only twelve thousand—an unusual degree of modesty and conservatism for a live California town. There was also a mission here, though it has practically disappeared.