Near the grove is the Tioga road which has recently been completed across the Sierras to Mono Lake on the Sierra Highway so that Yosemite may be reached from the east, although the entrance must be made at the west end of the valley. We met a party that had just made this trip and who declared the road next to impassable at that time.
A few miles beyond Tuolumne Grove one may reach the Hetch Hetchy Valley by a short side trip—a valley which has been styled a miniature Yosemite. It attained a nation-wide celebrity by the fight made to prevent the city of San Francisco from using it as a source of water supply, but San Francisco finally won and an act of congress permits the city to retain the water of the valley by a dam across the entrance. The engineers, however, claim that the work will not destroy the beauty of the valley nor prevent the public from visiting it.
Beyond Tuolumne Grove we still continue to plunge downward over the rough, stony trail which tried every rivet in the car and worked havoc with tires. At one point we had the unpleasant experience of meeting a car coming at high speed around a corner—the road was very narrow and as the newcomer was right upon us a collision seemed inevitable. The wild man at the wheel of the scrambling Ford, however, took long chances, for he ran upon the sidling bank when we had given him the last inch we could squeeze from the outer side of the road. It seemed that he must inevitably turn over on top of us, but the luck that sometimes is said to shield infants and fools—he was certainly no infant—favored him and he rolled back into the road right side up and went plunging along on the narrow grade. My friend, after drawing a deep breath, referred to the crazy driver as the “wild Irishman” and though I protested against the reflection on my remote ancestry, we still identify the road hog who gave us such a scare, by this appellation.
It was lunch time when we reached Sequoia, though we were only twenty-nine miles from Yosemite—a pretty insignificant showing for a half day’s run, from a mileage point of view, but it had been strenuous enough to make us tired and ravenously hungry. And hunger proved a very good sauce for the meal which we got at Crocker’s Hotel, which is about all there is of Sequoia. And I am not complaining of Crocker’s Hotel, either. I think they did very well when one considers that all their supplies must be hauled eighty miles by wagon road—naturally canned stuff and condensed milk prevailed. Another outstanding recollection is that it cost us forty cents per gallon to replenish our gasoline and we could not complain of that under the circumstances. The young fellow who kept the store near the hotel said he “had been the rounds in California,” but Crocker’s Ranch suited him best of any place he had seen. It was interesting to know that anyone could be satisfied in this remote and lonely place; it certainly had the advantage of being near to nature, if that was what our friend was seeking.
Beyond Crocker’s the characteristics of the country were about the same. A rough, dusty trail, winding through pine-clad hills with occasional heavy grades, carried us along for a good many miles. We occasionally passed a remote little station with a general store and “garage” bearing evidence of its origin in an old-time blacksmith shop. Colfax Gate, Smith’s, Garrett, and Big Oak Flat—which showed little reason for the distinction of giving its name to the road—were all of the same type, with nothing to invite even a casual glance from the tourist unless he needed gasoline or oil.
At Priest’s there is a country hotel, a haunt of hunters and ranchmen; but we recall Priest’s chiefly because it gives its name to one of the most beautiful bits of road engineering in California. The old road through this section had some of the steepest grades to be found in a country of steep grades; in fact, it was all but impassable to automobiles as bits of it still to be seen from the new highway will amply prove. The new grade extends for eight miles from Priest’s to Jacksonville, in which distance it descends fifteen hundred feet, but in no place does the gradient exceed five per cent. It follows the very crest of a giant hill range overlooking a beautiful valley some two or three thousand feet below. Alongside there is nothing to break the full sweep of one’s vision—not a tree or even a shrub intervenes between the roadbed and the precipitous slope beneath. Although the road is wide enough for easy passing at any point, the very baldness of its outer edge is enough to give a decided thrill to nervously inclined people and our driver received more advice and caution from the rear seat than had been offered him on far more dangerous roads with occasional rocks or trees alongside.
At Jacksonville the road comes down almost to the level of the Tuolumne River and we found ourselves on the border of the old gold-mining region made famous by the tales of Bret Harte. There are still several placer mines in operation along the river—the road passes a very large one at the foot of Chinese Camp grade, and the river is sullied for miles by the muddy washings from the mill. Chinese Camp grade is one of the worst encountered on our entire trip; it is steep and terribly rough, and dust a foot deep hides the ruts and chuck-holes, so we were compelled to “go it blind.” It was a four-mile plunge and scramble around sharp curves, half smothered and blinded by dense dust clouds which rose before we could get away from them, we made such slow progress over the dreadful road. At the hilltop, however, we were rewarded for our strenuous scramble by a magnificent view of the river canyon and a wide panorama of forest-clad hills with the emerald thread of the Tuolumne winding through them. Contemplation of the magnificent scene and a draught of cold water from our thermos bottle revived our spirits, which had drooped somewhat in the hot, dusty climb to the summit of the grade.
A short distance over a stony trail brought us into the main street of Chinese Camp, if we may so designate the wide, dusty section of road lined with wooden shacks of which every other one seemed a saloon. The appearance of the buildings warranted the guess on our part that there has been little change in this primitive hamlet since Bret Harte visited it, nearly a half century ago. Not far from here are many other camps and villages which found enduring fame in the stories of this most representative of all earlier California writers. Sonora, Angel’s Camp, Tuttletown, San Andreas, Mokelumne, and other places familiar in Harte’s pages may all be reached in a detour of fifty miles or so from the Big Oak Flat road. Most of these towns, like Chinese Camp, have made little progress since they were mirrored in the tales which appeared in the old Overland and Argonaut of San Francisco.
Beyond Chinese Camp we encountered the worst stretch of road of the entire day—a mere trail winding through a rough, boulder-strewn country seemingly having no end or object in view except to avoid the rocks too large to run over. No effort had been made to remove the smaller stones from the way and we had an unmerciful jolting, although we crawled along at a dozen miles per hour. Fortunately, there are no steep grades, and occasionally smoother stretches afforded a little respite. It would be hard to use language, however, that would exaggerate the relief which we felt when, on ascending a sharp little rise, we came upon a splendid paved highway which the road-book declared would continue all the way to Stockton. I think that the last forty miles into the city consumed less time than any ten miles we had covered since leaving Yosemite that morning.
We certainly presented a somewhat disreputable appearance when we came into the town. The car and everything about it, including the occupants, was dirty gray with dust, which I noted was two inches deep on the running boards and perhaps a little less on our faces, while it saturated our clothing and covered our baggage. California hotels, however, are used to such arrivals and we were well taken care of at the Stockton, despite our unprepossessing appearance. A thorough cleaning up, a change of raiment and a good dinner put us at peace with the world and we were soon exchanging felicitations over the fact that we had done Yosemite by motor car.