At one point four fine does contemplated us curiously and with little sign of fear, at a distance of perhaps sixty yards; they, too, seemed to realize that woman’s rights in California are even extended to deer—there is a heavy fine for killing a doe. We were told that these hills are alive with deer, but the exceedingly rugged nature of the country makes hunting very difficult. The road constantly grew more tortuous and arduous and we made many remarks about the tendency of Harris to recede as we advanced—we even began to wonder if we might not have passed it unaware. It was, therefore, with no small relief that we beheld Harris finally heave in sight, but our reviving spirits dropped when we saw a sign posted on the hotel, which is all there is of Harris, “Positively closed for the season,” and could detect no sign of life about the place. Was our expected gasoline supply to fail here with the Bell Springs Mountain now directly before us? A reconnoissance of the place, however, discovered the man in charge, who gleefully filled our tank with forty-cent gas and our apprehensions vanished into thin air.
While we were engaged in this transaction, a Ford car paused and began to disgorge its contents under a group of trees near by—said contents consisting of six people and two dogs, and an endless array of camping and other impedimenta was strapped to the machine at every available projection, almost concealing it from view. An old-fashioned, tin-covered trunk was fastened at the rear and several grips were piled about the engine hood. The wonder of it was that the flimsy-looking car could stand up under it all, even though two of the passengers were rather small children and the dogs not very large. The party proceeded at once to build a fire; a warm dinner and hot coffee were evidently on the program—which reminded us that we had neglected to provide ourselves with our usual lunch on leaving Eureka. The man who supplied gasoline assured us that we would find an excellent hotel still open at Bell Springs, twelve miles farther on; we ought to reach it in an hour, he thought.
“O, yes, some pretty stiff going, to be sure, but nothing to worry that wagon of yours, I guess,” he said.
It proved a steep, stony, winding, wicked dozen miles with one thirty per cent pitch, according to our road maps, all of which drawbacks were mightily accentuated in our minds when the rain commenced again shortly after we left Harris. Tire chains were brought into requisition and after a steady grind of an hour and a quarter, enlivened by no end of nervous thrills, we paused with steaming radiator in front of the attractive-looking Bell Springs Inn. It was about two o’clock and twenty-three miles from Laytonville, where we proposed, rather dubiously, to stop for the night.
“Here’s our only chance for luncheon,” I announced—a matter which a very early and very light breakfast at Eureka no doubt served to keep in my mind.
“I don’t want any lunch,” came from the rear seat. “I want to get out of these terrible hills just as quickly as we possibly can. Whatever induced you to choose this awful road? You always seem to find the worst possible.” To all of which no adequate answer came to my mind.
With a lingering look at the hotel, I gave the word to proceed, not without considerable misgiving, for it was still raining and the information which we had of the road was far from reassuring. True, it was down hill most of the way, but my experience was that it is easier to climb a muddy grade than to descend one. The descent began shortly after leaving the hotel and for some miles we proceeded with extreme caution down narrow switchbacks with sharp turns, some of which required backing. The scenery was magnificent, rugged slopes covered with gigantic pines which often came up to the roadside—but I confess that we did not pay enough attention to the scenery to warrant much descriptive writing. The road grew muddier with the incessant rain and as we came to the steep pitches of Rattlesnake Grade, the car showed an unmistakable tendency to skid, despite the chains on the rear wheels. Few things are so likely to make one’s heart sink as the feeling that a heavy car is not entirely under control on a steep grade, barely wider than the wheels, with a sharp turn on the verge of a precipice every few rods. We stopped and applied chains to the front wheels as well, but even then a tendency to slide on the grades was still noticeable and extreme caution was necessary. And yet the showers had only “greased” the road; I do not believe any car could negotiate these grades in a heavy rain.
Fortune, however, favored us for once, since the rain ceased just as we were wondering if we might not have to spend a supperless night on the road—which we certainly should have been compelled to do had conditions grown much worse. There was a rustic hotel at Cummings, at the foot of Rattlesnake Grade, but in order to carry out our plans for the following day, we felt it advisable to push on to Laytonville, though we realized that night would overtake us before we arrived. We had consumed nearly three hours in covering the twelve miles from Bell Springs, but we hoped to make better time over the thirteen miles still remaining—which we did, as the road was quite dry, though excruciatingly stony and rough. There was one heavy grade, but in the main we followed a canyon with a gradual descent. The road was so narrow that we found great difficulty in passing a belated car which we met, and so rough that a snail’s pace was enforced much of the way.
The canyon was heavily wooded; vines and shrubbery, rich with autumn colorings, grew in rank profusion. Despite the lateness of the season, there were occasional blooms. We saw dogwood and wild rosebushes bearing both blossoms and bright red berries. Huckleberries were common, as were also the pale red clusters of the honeysuckle, and manzanitas. The air was fragrant with the odor of balsam pine and we felt that it would be a delightful run had we not been tired, cold, and hungry. But very tired, cold, and hungry we were and the last few miles done in the dark before we reached Laytonville were long ones, indeed. It was a time when a truly comfortable inn would be as welcome as ever in our wanderings, but we did not hope for such a blessing in Laytonville, an isolated little village of about a hundred people.
The hotel proved a large, wooden building, much larger than the size of the place would lead one to expect, but comforts and conveniences, besides bed and board, were not to be found in its brown, clapboarded walls. No private bath was to be had and no heat in the rooms, though the night was frosty cold. There was a big wood-stove in the public room which was surrounded three or four deep by a crowd made up, I should judge, of village loafers, though there were a few commercial men among them. It was certainly not very inviting for a lady guest and the moving-picture show with which we usually beguiled away dull evenings, was non-existent in Laytonville. Evidently the best program for us was to eat our supper and go to bed. The evening meal, served at a common table in country style, proved far better than we expected. In fact, the pastry was so excellent that our lady manager must needs have the recipe, which the flattered cook was delighted to supply.