We had no time for these, as we were intent upon reaching Yosemite for the night and the regulation is that you check in at the final station by six o’clock. About a mile from Wawona we found the cabin of the ranger who issues tickets for the south entrance to the park. The formalities detained us but a few moments, since with the great influx of motor tourists during the exposition year, much of the original red tape was dispensed with. A copy of the rules and regulations was given us and the time of our entrance was stamped upon the ticket to be delivered to the superintendent at Yosemite village. The action of our small rifle was sealed and, with a friendly caution that it would be unwise to exceed the limit, we were ordered to proceed. Knowing something of the trip from previous experience we felt no uneasiness about exceeding the two hours and twenty-seven minutes minimum time allowed for covering the twenty-eight and nine-tenths miles between the station and Yosemite garage. No one but a confirmed speed maniac would care to exceed this very reasonable limit and anyone wise enough to admire the scenery along the road as it deserves to be admired might well consume twice the minimum time.
For some miles after entering the park we climbed the long, steady grade following the South Merced Canyon, always at a considerable distance above the stream, which we could see at intervals through the pines, flashing over its rock-strewn bed. There was scarcely a downward dip in the road for the first half-dozen miles, and we could not but recall the distressing effort of the horses as they toiled painfully upward on our former trip while we sat disconsolately enveloped in smothering clouds of dust. What a contrast we found in the steady, cheerful hum of our engine as it drove our car onward at not less than the permitted speed of fifteen miles, leaving the dust behind us and affording unhindered views of the endless panoramas of canyons and hills. Despite the heat and some murmurs from the back seat about the effect of the too ardent caresses of California sunshine on the complexion, we had lowered the cape top, for no one can get the full effect of the towering pines that skirt this road unless he has the open heavens above him. One will not often come across—even in California—finer individual cedars, sugar pines, and yellow pines than he will see here—splendid arrow-straight shafts several feet in circumference, often rising to a height of two or even three hundred feet. It is, indeed, pleasant to think that they are immune from the lumberman’s ax and guarded carefully against devastating fires. We paused at times in the shade of these forest titans and contemplated the wide range of hills and valleys beyond the canyon—particularly at Lookout Point, some seven or eight miles from Wawona. Here we beheld a seemingly endless panorama of forest-clad hills stretching away until lost in the infinite distance of the lucent afternoon. Once before we had beheld the same scene—at sunset, the hills shrouded in an amethyst haze, the valleys dim with purple shadows, and the sky resplendent with crimson and gold. Nothing could have shown more impressively the wonderful variations of the same landscape at different hours of the day, or proven more completely that one must come many times to see the beauty of Yosemite.
Three or four miles beyond Lookout Point the road branches, the left fork leading to Glacier Point, a distance of fourteen miles. This is a magnificent drive through virgin forests and should not be missed by anyone who has not made the trip. There is an old-fashioned hotel at Glacier Point where one may be fairly comfortable for the night and it is worth while to remain for the night to witness the sunrise over the mountain ramparts of the Valley. We did not undertake this trip, having made it a few years before by stage, but for all that we are sorry now that we let slip an opportunity to view the wonderful Glacier Point panorama a second time and some day, shall have to go back again.
Continuing a few miles farther, we came to the top of the grade leading down into the valley. We recalled it as a stiff, strenuous road, winding around sharp curves and often along the edge of sheer precipices which gave us a great many thrills from our high perch beside the driver of our four-in-hand. We had traversed mountain roads so much worse in the meanwhile that Wawona grade really seemed quite tame from a motor car and even the ladies took only languid interest in its twists and turns. We paused again for the third time at the famous Inspiration Point, and, indeed, we can not help envying those who are fortunate to come into the Yosemite by this road and thus get their first glimpse of the valley from Inspiration Point. Perhaps the view from Glacier Point is as glorious but one is not likely to come upon it so suddenly and is somehow expecting stupendous things, but Inspiration Point bursts on the wayfarer from the Wawona all unaware and he sees unfold before him almost in an instant all the marvelous sights that have made Yosemite a world’s wonder. I have tried elsewhere—in a previous book—to tell something of my impressions when I first viewed this unmatched scene and perhaps I may be pardoned for a short repetition of my words, since I do not know that I can do any better in describing it.
“Inspiration Point! Well named, indeed, for it must surely be a prosaic imagination that does not kindle with enthusiasm at the prospect. ‘It comes up to the brag,’ is what Ralph Waldo Emerson said after contemplating it long in silence—or at least that is what the guide books and railroad literature credit him with having said. It sounds strangely unlike our staid and gentle philosopher, whose language we are wont to admire as the finality in polished English. But it expresses one’s feelings more strongly, perhaps, than fine words. We have been led to expect much; they have assured us and we have often read, that the view from Inspiration Point is surpassed by few panoramas in the world—if, indeed, by any—for grandeur of mountain, cliff, and peak and for beauty of contour and color, and all of these are enhanced by the magic of the hour when we are so fortunate as to see it.
“The valley lies before us in the soft blue haze of the evening shadows, and its encompassing walls and towers are kindled with the purple and golden hues of the sunset. As one contemplates the glittering peaks and domes and the ranges of glowing mountains out beyond, he can realize John Muir’s characterization of the Sierras as the ‘Mountains of Light.’ The grandeur of Inspiration Point seems more of cliffs and spires, of towering walls and mountain peaks, while from Glacier Point one is perhaps more interested in the details of the valley itself. But from either point one may witness a scene that will possess his soul and whose beauty will linger through the years. We regret the necessity which hurries us from the scene, for the pause of the stage coach is but momentary. We have had but a glimpse of a landscape that might well hold one’s rapt attention for hours.”
It is the third time we have viewed this wonderful scene and we have been fortunate in coming each time at a different period of the day—morning and evening and early afternoon. Each has shown us a different phase of the beauty of Yosemite, for the variation of light and consequent changes of coloring have everything to do with the view from Inspiration Point.
We proceeded slowly and cautiously down the steep switchbacks leading to the floor of the Valley, a long, low-gear grind, for regulations forbid disengaging gears on roads in the park. The descent did not seem nearly so precarious as when we first made it in the regulation coach-and-four—the road appeared to have been widened at the turns; maybe this was only in our imagination, due to greater familiarity with mountain roads. We were enough at our ease to enjoy the splendid vistas of the valley and mountains which were presented from a hundred viewpoints as we slowly descended, something that we hardly did the first time. Nor did the time seem so long, though I really doubt if we went down so quickly as our dashing driver piloted his coach-and-four over this three-mile grade on our first trip. We soon found ourselves on the floor of the valley with Bridal Veil Falls waving like a gossamer thread above us—it was in September and the waterfalls were all at lowest ebb. The four miles along the floor to Yosemite was a joy ride indeed and we felt no desire to infringe the low speed limit imposed on motor cars. What though we had seen this wondrous array of stupendous cliffs, domes, pinnacles, and towers many times before, familiarity does not detract from their overpowering majesty and weird changeful beauty.
When we left Wawona we were somewhat fearful that we would be in danger of exceeding the seemingly absurdly low minimum time allowed—two hours and twenty-seven minutes for the twenty-six miles. It seemed as if we couldn’t help beating it without loafing on the way. However, on consulting our timepieces on nearing Yosemite station—there is a heavy fine for coming in ahead of schedule—we found that we had consumed over three hours and had stopped only a few minutes on the way. At the checking station we paid the five dollar fee required of motorists who enter Yosemite and took the car to the official garage forthwith, for absolutely no motoring is permitted in the park except for ingress and egress.
The old Sentinel Hotel had not changed in appearance since our last visit, nor had it improved in service; however, it was comfortable enough for a short stop in warm weather. We had heard many rumors of a new modern hotel to be erected on the site of the Sentinel and one declared that it was to be built and managed by that prince of innkeepers, Frank Miller of the Glenwood Mission Inn—all of which we fondly hoped might prove true. We learned, however, that although Mr. Miller had negotiated with the authorities in regard to building a hotel in Yosemite, he abandoned the scheme when he found that the government would not grant a lease for a period of more than ten years. Later a corporation, the Desmond Company, secured control of the concessions of the park and among their plans, we were told, is the erection of a first-class hotel, though at this writing the work has not begun. The company already has a new hotel at Glacier Point—a great improvement over the barn-like structure with which Yosemite tourists have so long been familiar.