Beyond Cazadero there was still more climbing through the "forest primeval," whose increasing greenness and luxuriance called forth more than one exclamation of delight. The madrona, horse-chestnut, dogwood and locust were in full bloom and huge ferns grew riotously everywhere underneath the trees. The road was wet and dangerous in places, making our progress slow, but at last we came out on the clifflike headland above Fort Ross and the ocean, silver-white in the declining sun, flashed into view. Far beneath, directly on the shore, we could see the little hamlet, the object of our pilgrimage, nestling among the green hillocks. A very steep, narrow road, wet from the recent rain, plunged down the almost precipitous bank and we narrowly escaped disastrous collision with a tree from a vicious "skid" in the descent, which has several pitches of twenty-five per cent.
We found only a scene of desolation at our goal; there were two or three families living in the place, but most of the houses were abandoned. The huge, windowless hotel covered with creepers, testified mutely to the one-time importance of the town. Relics of the old fort or blockhouse were in evidence, but only two fragments of the walls, built of huge squared logs, were still standing. The quaint little church had just been restored—a tiny whitewashed structure perhaps twelve by fifteen feet, with an odd domelike cupola and square tower in front. It had been rebuilt at public expense and the fort was also to be restored from the same legislative appropriation.
There was nothing to detain us in the lonely village and after a mad scramble up the wet slope, slipping backward dangerously at one point, we paused again on the headland to contemplate the glorious panorama of rugged coast and shining sea. Rain was still threatening, however, and it seemed best not to stop, as we had planned, at Sea View Inn, near by, but to return to Guerneville for the night. The vistas seemed even more wonderful in the gathering twilight than on our outward trip—the great hills with their fringe of forest loomed against the rich sunset sky and purple shadows filled the vast canyons with mysterious gloom.
The hotel at Guerneville was primitive in the extreme, but the landlord was very considerate and we were too cold and hungry to be over-critical. Leaving the town on the following morning, we pursued the northward road along the Russian River, passing Bohemian Grove, famous for the antics of a San Francisco club, to Monte Rio, a much frequented summer resort town. The road climbed a forest-fringed grade with endless vistas of river and valley as well as vast stretches of wooded hills. Wild flowers bloomed in profusion and the air was redolent with the invigorating fragrance of the balsam pines. At the summit we paused to admire the endless panorama of hills, merging from green into deep solid blue in the far distance. Leaving Monte Rio we followed a tortuous, undulating road along a clear little river. The trees and undergrowth crowded up to the edge of the road and overarched it most of the dozen or so miles—a perfect wall of greenery on either hand.
Beyond Freestone we came again into the open hills, green and rolling and sloping to the sea a little to our right. Here our admiration was again excited by the marvel of the wild flowers, which bloomed in richest profusion; vast dashes of yellow, blue and white spangled the meadows and hills through which the fine road courses. At Tomales, an antique-looking little town, we came to the head of Tomales Bay, a "shoestring" of water some twenty miles long but nowhere more than two miles wide. The road runs alongside, up and down the low hills, affording fugitive glimpses of the bay, as inconstant in coloring as an opal. From Olema we pursued the coast road—or shall I say trail?—to Bolinas and thence to the Sausalito Ferry.
Despite the rough and difficult going, we had reason to congratulate ourselves upon our choice of route, for we saw much wild and picturesque coast and had many clear-cut views—not common in the land of frequent cloud and fog—of the coastward side of San Francisco. We climbed the winding ascent to Forts Baker and Barry, where one of the most comprehensive views of the whole district, the bay, the cities and the hills, may be had. So clear was the air that the Farralones, fifteen miles distant, stood out distinctly against the evening sky; and in the city the long green strip of Golden Gate Park and even the outlines of the streets and notable buildings were plainly observable. It was a wonderful scene and we had the day of a thousand to view it. Good fortune still attended us when we crossed the ferry, for we saw a perfect sunset directly through the Golden Gate. No language could exaggerate the splendor of the scene; no picture could do justice to its ethereal beauty of coloring. Fully as enchanting was the afterglow with its reflections of the crimson and gold cloud banks in the still waters. Behind us the windows and lights of Oakland and Berkeley flashed like a million gems set in the dark background of the hills, and eastward the lavender-tinted sky bent down to the still blue waters of the bay. We are quite ready for the spacious comfort of the Fairmont; it has not been an easy jaunt by any means. But we all agree that it would be hard to find even in California a more delightful tour than the little journey to old Fort Ross, granted weather as propitious as that which favored us.
It was always a difficult matter for us to shake off the lure of Del Monte whenever we made the run between Los Angeles and San Francisco and even though considerably out of our way, we nearly always put the old capital on our itinerary. What were a hundred or so miles additional as weighed against the delights of the famous inn?—and, besides, there was one road from San Francisco to Del Monte which we had not yet traversed. We have a decided fondness for trails directly along the ocean, though usually they are of the worst, and the little-used road along the coast running southward from Golden Gate Park to Half Moon Bay and Santa Cruz proved no exception to the rule. In fact, if it was an exception in any way it was in the degree of badness—but there is no need anticipating an unpleasant subject. I may say right here, however, that I think that nearly all of this wonderful run is now over paved roads and deserves to be far more popular than it is.
Following Ocean Drive southward from the Cliff House in Golden Gate Park, a few miles down the coast the highway swings landward to Sloat Avenue, which we pursued to Colma. Here the road turns to the left and closely follows the ocean through a number of small fisher villages and beach resorts. There are some long and rather heavy grades in places, but they are atoned for by inspiring views of rugged coast and shining sea, particularly at San Pedro Point, just below Salada, where we enjoyed a far-reaching vista from an elevation of several hundred feet above the sea. Beyond Montara grade the road drops down into the fertile plains about Half Moon Bay. Here is the famous artichoke section of California and we saw hundreds upon hundreds of acres of the succulent vegetable in the vicinity of the village. There is also a delightful alternate route to Half Moon Bay which we took on another occasion, following the main highway to San Mateo, where a well-improved macadam road swings to the left and plunges into the hill range between the bay and the ocean. It winds in graceful curves and easy grades among the giant hills, passing several of the huge fresh-water lakes of the San Francisco water supply system. This route is the easier one, but hardly the equal of the coast in scenic grandeur.
Half Moon Bay is a forlorn-looking little town with a decidedly un-American appearance—which is not so strange since the inhabitants, who engage in fishing or in cultivating the endless artichoke fields about the place, are mostly Portuguese and Italians. Thinking that Half Moon Bay, notwithstanding its unprepossessing looks, was about our only chance for luncheon before we should reach Santa Cruz, we inquired of the bank cashier, who responded rather dubiously, it seemed to us, that the French Hotel was the "best to be had in town." We found it a second-class country inn whose main business was evidently done in the bar-room, which occupied the most prominent place in the building. The lunch hour was past but the proprietor went to considerable trouble to prepare a hot meal, which, we agreed in Yorkshire parlance, "might have been worse." Outside there was a little garden with some wonderful roses and, altogether, the inn was neater and cleaner than appearances had led us to expect.
Our real troubles began when we left the town, for a rougher, meaner and more uncomfortable fifty miles we hardly found in all our wanderings in the Golden State. A new macadam road was being built to Pescadero, twenty miles south, and was just at the stage calculated to most distress the motorist. We wallowed through miles of loose, sharp stones, made long detours through the rough, steep hills, crept over shaky bridges, plunged down and out of huge gulches and crawled through miles of rough, stony trails, deep with dust. Pescadero, which marks the end of the railroad, is as lonely and wretched a little hamlet as one will find in California; in fact, it took quite a mental effort to assure ourselves that we really were in California—it reminded us so strongly of some of the old-world villages we had seen. We took on "gas" at a dilapidated smithy recently decorated with a huge "garage" sign, though I doubt if a sizable car could have gotten inside. Beyond Pescadero the road was still rough, dusty and steep in places, but it was free from construction work and we made better time. Beyond Swanton the road steadily improved. When we came into Santa Cruz the sun was still high and by grace of the long evening we were able to reach Del Monte by way of Watsonville and Salinas shortly after dark. It is superfluous to remark on the satisfaction we experienced in reaching such a haven of rest after an unusually strenuous and uncomfortable run.