We found a forlorn-looking hamlet in the edge of the foothills and a glance at the ramshackle wooden hotel was anything but reassuring. A short conversation with the proprietor of a little shack labeled “garage” was not more encouraging. He was very noncommittal about the merits of the hotel and finally said,
“It’s only thirty miles to Miami Lodge—mighty comfortable place; you ought to reach there before it gets dark. Shall I telephone them to hold dinner for you?”
All of which sounded good to us as we contemplated prospective accommodations in Raymond, and with a speedy acquiescence we were away for Miami Lodge. Ten miles per hour, said the garage man, would be a good average for a greenhorn over the road we were to traverse—a ridiculously low estimate, we thought, but we had not proceeded far before we agreed with his conservatism. A narrow and exceedingly tortuous road plunged into the hills, threading its way among giant pines or creeping precariously along steep hillsides and around abrupt corners deep with dust and at times laboriously steep. Now and then it emerged into pleasant little glades and on entering one of these we saw a young mountain lion trotting leisurely toward the thicket. Of course our small rifle was under a pile of baggage, unloaded, and the cartridges in a grip, but we consoled ourselves with remarks about the extreme improbability of hitting him even if we had the gun.
It was sunset by the time we had covered little more than half the distance and while we regarded the approaching darkness with some apprehension, for the road showed no signs of improvement, we forgot it all in our admiration for the enchanting scene. Many were the magnificent vistas opening through the pines skirting our road along the mountainside. Purple hills topped with dark forests stretched away to a crimson sky; shadowy canyons sloped far beneath us, their mysterious deeps shrouded in a soft blue haze. It was a constantly changing yet always entrancing picture until the color faded from the skies and the canyons were blotted out by the gathering blackness. Then the road demanded our undivided attention, for we covered the last ten miles in pitch darkness and our neglected headlights proved in very poor condition.
About dusk we passed a little store and postoffice bearing the poetic name of Grub Gulch and later came to a comfortable-looking roadside inn, the Ahwahnee Tavern, where we should doubtless have stopped had our accommodations not been ordered at Miami Lodge. We learned, however, that this was only six miles farther and we crept cautiously onward over the stiff grades and around the abrupt turns. We were glad indeed when the lights of the Lodge twinkled through the pines and, leaving the old car to shift for herself under the stars, made a hasty toilet and attacked the substantial meal we found ready for us.
The Lodge is a comfortable rustic inn set in the pines on a hillside which slopes down to a clear creek dammed at one point into a small lake. The little valley forms a natural amphitheater surrounded by the forest-clad hills and is altogether a pleasant and restful spot well away from noise and disturbance of any kind. The creek is stocked with rainbow trout and big game is fairly common—attractions which bring many sportsmen to the Lodge. It is easy of access by the Madera-Yosemite auto stages which run daily during the season.
Beyond Miami Lodge we found the road even more trying than it was southward. Heavy grades and sharp turns continued, and deep dust and rough stretches caused much discomfort. We met many motor trucks and several heavy wagons drawn by six or eight horses, which made ticklish work in passing on the narrow grades and which stirred up clouds of yellow dust. As the sun mounted, the day became intolerably hot, making it necessary to elevate our cape top which combined with the dust to interfere with our view of the scenery.
The famous Mariposa Grove of giant redwoods lies a short distance off the main road to Wawona and though we had visited this before, we could not resist the temptation to do the big trees by motor. An attendant at the entrance gate demanded a fee of one dollar and admitted us to a narrow, winding road which steadily climbed a stiff grade for about three miles before we came to the trees. We renewed our acquaintance with the Grizzly Giant, reputed the oldest of living things on this mundane sphere. We found him protected by a high wire fence to ward off fiends suffering from the name-carving mania or souvenir seekers who sought to rob him of a chip or twig. He had not aged perceptibly since our previous visit and looked good for many more centuries, though the late John Muir once declared his belief that the Grizzly Giant had passed his zenith of growth and is now in his decline, a point not yet reached by any other redwood. But the hoar old monarch stands a second visit well indeed, though one may not experience quite the feeling of awe always inspired by the first sight of these mighty trees. It quite overwhelms one to reflect that here is a living thing older than the oldest records of the human race—a life that was in its infancy at the beginnings of Egyptian civilization. So impressive to us was the Giant and the reveries he excited that we hardly gave due attention to his three hundred and sixty-four companions in this grove, the least of which, taken by itself, might well excite the astonishment of anyone who had never before seen a redwood. Of course we had the novel experience of piloting a motor car through the living arch of the Wawona while completing the circle through the grove which brought us again into the road by which we entered.
Wawona is only four miles from the big-tree road, a rough, dusty, and very winding four miles with a good many steep grades, and it was an interesting comparison to recall the trip we made over it in a coach-and-four on our previous visit to the grove. Making due allowance for all the discomforts one experiences in an automobile during a hot, dusty day on difficult mountain roads, our present method of travel made the memory of the snail’s pace and suffocating dust and heat of our former trip to the grove seem more than ever like a nightmare.
We reached Wawona in time for the noonday luncheon at the pleasant old inn which has been the haven of sightseers for nearly half a century. It is delightfully situated in a little vale amidst a group of towering pines and all about it green meadows stretch away to the forest-clad hills that surround it on every hand. Through the valley runs the South Merced, famous for its mountain trout, a delicacy which guests at the inn sometimes enjoy. About the main hotel building are scattered several isolated cottages for the accommodation of guests who may be particular about privacy and plenty of light and air. There are numerous beautiful drives in the vicinity aside from the Mariposa Grove trip. One of these follows the river for some distance and another makes a circuit of the valley.