"A man named Todd," according to an eye-witness, "proceeded to make a flag for the occasion by painting a red star on a piece of cotton cloth, when he was reminded that Texas had already adopted this emblem. The grizzly bear was then substituted and the words, 'Republic of California,' added in common writing ink. The flag was hoisted amidst cheers from the entire company and remained afloat for several weeks until Lieutenant Revere of the Portsmouth came to raise the stars and stripes over it after the capture of Monterey."
This event is commemorated by a huge granite boulder near the flagstaff in the plaza of Sonoma. It bears a reproduction of the original flag in bronze and a tablet of the same metal with the inscription, "Bear flag, raised June 14, 1846—erected July 4, 1907. S. O. W. C." It serves to impress on the infrequent visitor that the modest little village has an historic past that its more pretentious neighbors well might envy.
The homestead which General Vallejo occupied after these events and until the time of his death still stands but a short distance from the town, and is approached through a beautiful avenue of ancient palms.
It is quite as he left it, in a garden overgrown with roses and geraniums and shaded by lemon and orange trees intermingled with magnolias and palms. This house is now occupied by General Vallejo's youngest daughter, who still treasures many mementos of her father and of mission days.
A well-improved road leads from Sonoma to Santa Rosa. The latter is a thriving town of ten thousand people and to all appearances has completely recovered from the severe damage inflicted upon it by the earthquake of 1906. It is the home of a man whose fame is wider than that of the town, for no doubt thousands have heard of Luther Burbank who do not know that he lives in Santa Rosa. We passed his experiment station at Sevastopol, seven miles from his home town. We wished we might see the wizard and his work, but he is too busy to be troubled by tourists and can be seen only by special introduction. Santa Rosa is the county seat of Sonoma County—succeeding the village of Sonoma in 1856—and a new court house, just completed, would do credit to any city in size and architectural design—another example of the far-sightedness of California communities. The Baptist Church is pointed out as an unique curiosity, for it was built of a single redwood tree—and it is a good-sized church, too.
Out of Santa Rosa we came into the Russian River Valley,—which, with many other names in this vicinity, reminded us that at one time Russia had designs upon our Golden West—certainly one of the loveliest and most fertile of California vales. Here and in Napa Valley just over the range to the east are the Italian colonies, which produce vast quantities of wine. The well-improved road follows the center of the narrow green valley, shut in by blue hill ranges on either hand and covered with great vineyards. In places these ascend the steep hillsides—recalling the valley of the Rhine—and they show everywhere the perfect care and cultivation characteristic of old-world vineyards.
A little beyond Healdsburg, state highway construction barred the main road west of the river and we were forced to cross a rickety bridge into a rather forbidding-looking byroad on the eastern side. At the moment this seemed a small calamity, for we were already late and the road appeared favorable for anything but speed. But we had not gone far until the entrancing beauty of the scenery made us rejoice that chance had led us into this route, which my notes declare "one of the most picturesque on our entire tour." The sinuous, undulating road closely follows the course of the stream, which lay quietly in deep emerald-green pools, or dashed in incredibly swift foaming cascades over its rocky bed. The fine trees—oaks, sycamores, madronas, pines, redwoods, and many other varieties—crowd closely up to the narrow road and climb to the very top of the rugged slopes on either hand. In places there are bold cliffs overhanging the river, one great rock, a vast expanse of tawny brown, spangled with moss and lichens, rising to a height of several hundred feet. Just off this road is Geyserville, in the vicinity of which are geysers and hot springs similar to those of the Yellowstone Park.
At Cloverdale we came into the main highway, which here begins a steady climb up the mountains at the head of the valley, the grades ranging six to ten per cent. The road follows the river canyon and there were many picturesque glimpses of the dashing stream through the trees on our left. At Pieta Station—the railroad runs on the western side of the river—we made a sharp turn to the right, following Pieta grade, which cuts squarely across the mountain range. The road is exceedingly tortuous, climbing the giant hills in long loops and, though none of the grades are heavy, caution was very necessary. Here we ran through the "forest primeval;" nature was in its pristine beauty, unspoiled by the hand of man. No human habitation was in sight for miles and wild life abounded. Rabbits, snakes, and quails scurried across the road and birds flitted through the trees. Wild flowers bloomed in profusion in the glades and flowering shrubs such as the wild lilac and dogwood gave a delightful variation from the prevailing green of the trees. This is a toll road and at the summit of the grade, eight miles from Pieta, a gate barred our way and we were required to pay a dollar to proceed. We found ourselves in no hurry, however, despite the fact that the sun was just setting, for from this spot we had our first view of Clear Lake Valley. Beyond a long vista of wooded hills, set like a great gem in the green plain, the lake shimmered in the subdued light. In the far distance other mountain ranges faded away into the violet haze of the gathering twilight.
The descending road is steeper and rougher than the climb to the summit, though the distance is not so great. At the foot of the grade is Highland Springs, with a summer resort hotel not yet open, and after this a straight, level road runs directly northward to Lakeport. It is a little, isolated town of a thousand people—there is no railroad in Clear Lake Valley—and its hotel is a typical country-town inn. There is another hotel which keeps open only during the summer season, for a small number of discerning people come to Clear Lake for their summer vacation. At the Garrett, however, we were made as comfortable as circumstances permitted, the greatest desideratum being private bathrooms. While rambling about the town after supper I fell into conversation with a druggist and I unwittingly touched a sore spot—which we learned was common to every citizen of Lakeport—when I remarked that it was strange that a town of its size, so favorably situated, should be without a railroad.