ON THE SLOPES OF MT. ST. HELENA
From Photograph by Harold Taylor
From the highest point of the road—it does not cross the summit of the mountain—was a glorious prospect of wooded hills and a long vista down the canyon which we followed to the valley. The descent was a strenuous one—winding downward in long loops, turning sharply around blind corners, and running underneath mighty cliffs, with precipices falling away beneath. It presented a series of magnificent views—a new one at almost every turn—and finally we came out into the open where we had full sweep down the vine-clad valley. At its head, just at the end of the mountain grade, was Calistoga, a quiet village of a thousand people, where Stevenson stopped while outfitting for his Silverado expedition. It was entirely surrounded by vineyards, which skirted the road for the eight miles to St. Helena and spread out over the narrow valley to the green hills on either hand. At intervals wheatfields studded with great solitary oaks varied the monotony of the scene and here and there a vineyard dotted the steep slopes of the hills.
Here, as well as in the valley just west of the St. Helena Range, are the properties of the Swiss-Italian and Asti Colonies, and the principal winery, a vast stone structure that reminds one of a Rheinish castle, is situated on this road. Its capacity is three million gallons annually and besides its storage vats there is one great cement cistern which holds a half million gallons. In this capacious cavern a merrymaking party of a hundred couples is said to have held a dance on one occasion. But Italian methods have been abandoned in these big wineries—it would be something of a job to crush grapes for three million gallons of wine with the bare feet, the implements mostly in use in Italy. Instead, there is a mammoth crusher in a tower of the structure and the grapes are dumped upon an endless chain that hoists them to this machine, which grinds and stems them at a single operation. The pulp is then conducted through pipes to the fermenting vats below. The founder of the Asti Colony has a beautiful home in the hills, modeled after a Pompeian villa and surrounded by elaborate gardens and groves, an altogether artistic and charming place, it is said. He is now reckoned as a very wealthy man, though he came here about thirty years ago with little or nothing.
The colony has its own general store, its smithy, its bakery, its dairy, its cooperage, its schools and post office, and a quaint little wooden church—La Madonna del Carmine—where Italian services are conducted on Sundays. While the Asti Colony is the largest and most distinctly Italian, there are several other similar communities in this section and also in the San Joaquin Valley. The greatest danger threatening them is, no doubt, the growing prohibition sentiment in California. We found prohibition already in force in Lake County, though there are many vineyards within its borders. To our request for a bottle of Lake County wine at one of the small inns, our landlord declared that he could not sell, but obligingly made up the deficiency by a donation.
All of the foregoing—interesting as it may be—has been relegated to the realm of ancient history by the enactment of the prohibition amendment. The results so far as the grape growers are concerned, and as I have previously noted in this book, were quite the opposite of those expected. Never was the industry so prosperous and never before did the "fruit of the vine" bring rich returns with so little labor. It is only necessary to dry the grapes in the sun or in specially constructed kilns to realize twice what they would have brought in the palmiest days of the abandoned wineries.
We were surprised to find a splendid boulevard extending for many miles on either side of St. Helena; it emphasized on our minds a fact not generally known, that in the vicinity of San Francisco there is almost as much improved road as about Los Angeles. Its condition, however, does not average nearly so good, and a large part of it is in great need of repairs. The work has been done mainly by the counties, San Joaquin County having just completed a two-million-dollar system of boulevards.
From St. Helena we continued southward to Napa, a town of seven thousand people with many fine residences and a substantial business center. From Napa the road runs through a less interesting country to Vallejo, a distance of fourteen miles, where we thought to cross by ferry to Port Costa. We found, however, to our disgust, that these boats would not carry cars and we were directed to proceed to Benicia, seven miles farther up the coast. Here we ran on to a large railroad ferry-boat, which, after a tedious delay, carried us to the desired point on the western shore of the Sacramento River, which here is really an arm of the bay.
Port Costa is a poor-looking hamlet, principally inhabited by Mexicans, several of whom gathered about us to watch our struggles with a refractory tire. Our objective for the night was Stockton, nearly a hundred miles away by the roundabout route which we must pursue. The long wait at the ferry and the puncture—sure to occur under such conditions—put us behind at least two hours and the sun was already declining. We recognized that we should have to speed up a little and probably finish after dark. Our road out of Port Costa, however, was favorable to anything but speed; after climbing a long grade we came out on the edge of the hills overlooking the river. The road runs along the side of the hills, which fall away for several hundred feet almost sheer to the water beneath, and it twists and turns around the cliffs in a manner anything but soothing to nervous people. It affords, however, some magnificent views of the broad estuary, with green hills and distant mountains beyond.