The land of gold; or, Three years in California

by Walter Colton

Thursday, Oct. 28. The king of all field-sports in California is the bear-hunt: I determined to witness one, and for this purpose joined a company of native gentlemen bound out on this wild amusement. All were well mounted, armed with rifles and pistols, and provided with lassoes. A ride of fifteen miles among the mountain crags, which frown in stern wildness over the tranquil beauty of Monterey, brought us to a deserted shanty, in the midst of a gloomy forest of cypress and oak. In a break of this swinging gloom lay a natural pasture, isled in the centre by a copse of willows and birch, and on which the sunlight fell. This, it was decided, should be the arena of the sport: a wild bullock was now shot, and the quarters, after being trailed around the copse, to scent the bear, were deposited in its shade. The party now retired to the shanty, where our henchman tumbled from his panniers several rolls of bread, a boiled ham, and a few bottles of London porter. These discussed, and our horses tethered, each wrapped himself in his blanket, and with his saddle for his pillow, rolled down for repose.

At about twelve o’clock of the night our watch came into camp and informed us that a bear had just entered the copse. In an instant each sprung to his feet and into the saddle. It was a still, cloudless night, and the moonlight lay in sheets on rivulet, rock, and plain. We proceeded with a cautious, noiseless step, through the moist grass of the pasture to the copse in its centre, where each one took his station, forming a cordon around the little grove. The horse was the first to discover, through the glimmering shade, the stealthful movements of his antagonist. His ears were thrown forward, his nostrils distended, his breathing became heavy and oppressed, and his large eye was fixed immovably on the dim form of the savage animal. Each rider now uncoiled his lasso from its loggerhead, and held it ready to spring from his hand, like a hooped serpent from the brake. The bear soon discovered the trap that had been laid for him; plunged from the thicket, broke through the cordon, and was leaping, with giant bounds, over the cleared plot for the dark covert of the forest beyond. A shout arose—a hot pursuit followed, and lasso after lasso fell in curving lines around the bear, till at last one looped him around the neck and brought him to a momentary stand.

As soon as bruin felt the lasso, he growled his defiant thunder, and sprung in rage at the horse. Here came in the sagacity of that noble animal. He knew, as well as his rider, that the safety of both depended on his keeping the lasso taught, and without the admonitions of rein or spur, bounded this way and that, to the front or rear, to accomplish his object, never once taking his eye from the ferocious foe, and ever in an attitude to foil his assaults. The bear, in desperation, seized the lasso in his griping paws, and hand over hand drew it into his teeth: a moment more and he would have been within leaping distance of his victim; but the horse sprung at the instant, and, with a sudden whirl, tripped the bear and extricated the lasso. At this crowning feat the horse fairly danced with delight. A shout went up which seemed to shake the wild-wood with its echoes. The bear plunged again, when the lasso slipped from its loggerhead, and bruin was instantly leaping over the field to reach his jungle. The horse, without spur or rein, dashed after him. While his rider, throwing himself over his side, and hanging there like a lamper-eel to a flying sturgeon, recovered his lasso, bruin was brought up again all standing, more frantic and furious than before; while the horse pranced and curveted around him like a savage in his death-dance over his doomed captive. In all this no overpowering torture was inflicted on old bruin, unless it were through his own rage,—which sometimes towers so high he drops dead at your feet. He was now lassoed to a sturdy oak, and wound so closely to its body by riata over riata, as to leave him no scope for breaking or grinding off his clankless chain; though his struggles were often terrific as those of Laocoon, in the resistless folds of the serpent.

This accomplished, the company retired again to the shanty, but in spirits too high and noisy for sleep. Day glimmered, and four of the baccaros started off for a wild bull, which they lassoed out of a roving herd, and in a few hours brought into camp, as full of fury as the bear. Bruin was now cautiously unwound, and stood front to front with his horned antagonist. We retreated on our horses to the rim of a large circle, leaving the arena to the two monarchs of the forest and field. Conjectures went wildly round on the issue, and the excitement became momently more intense. They stood motionless, as if lost in wonder and indignant astonishment at this strange encounter. Neither turned from the other his blazing eyes; while menace and defiance began to lower in the looks of each. Gathering their full strength, the terrific rush was made: the bull missed, when the bear, with one enormous bound, dashed his teeth into his back to break the spine; the bull fell, but whirled his huge horn deep into the side of his antagonist. There they lay, grappled and gored, in their convulsive struggles and death-throes. We spurred up, and with our rifles and pistols closed the tragedy; and it was time: this last scene was too full of blind rage and madness even for the wild sports of a California bear-hunt.

Tuesday, Nov. 2. Byron says, a hog in a high wind is a poetical object. Had he lived here, he might have put a mischievous boy on the top of that grotesque animal, and it would have helped out the poetical image immensely. The boys here begin their equestrianism on the back of a hog or bullock, and end it on the saddle, to which they seem to grow like a muscle to a rock.

Wednesday, Nov. 3. A Russian, who carries on a farm at Santa Cruz, called at my office a few days since, and presented me with a cabbage head. I was sure from this garden gift, the old Cossack had something in tow yet out of sight; but it soon came in the shape of a request that I would summon a debtor of his, and order payment.

The creditor of the Russian proved to be a young Frenchman, who had run away with the old man’s daughter, married her, and then quartered himself and wife on her father. I told the Frenchman he must pay board, or run away again with his wife; but if he came back he must satisfy arrears: so he concluded to run. This running before the honey-moon is pleasant enough; but running after that sweet orb has waned, is rather a dismal business.

Col. Burton, with his command, is in Lower California, where he has maintained the flag against desperate odds. His officers and men have acquitted themselves with honor. The powder and ball of the enemy were smuggled in by an American—a wretch who ought to be shot himself.

Monday, Nov. 8. After being six months without rain, the first shower of the season fell this evening. Its approach had been announced for several days by a dim atmosphere, which was filled with a soft, thick vapor, that swung about, like a limitless cloud. The rain itself was warm, and sunk into the earth like flattery into the heart of a fool.