From the top of the
divide which separates the valleys there is a beautiful view of the
surrounding country, the dim blue peaks of the Sierra Nevada forming the
eastern sky-line.
One of the chief charms of an excursion through these
foothill counties is the certainty that directly you reach any
considerable elevation there will be revealed a magnificent panorama,
bounded only by the limit of vision, range after range of mountains
running up in varying shades of blue and purple, to the far distant
summits that indicate the backbone of California.
Tuolumne is situated in a circular basin rather than in a valley, and
thus being protected from the wind, in hot weather the heat is intense.
If there are any mining operations in the immediate vicinity, they are
not in evidence to the casual observer. It is, however, one of the
biggest timber camps in the State. In the yards of the West Side Lumber
Company, covering several hundred acres, are stacked something like
30,000,000 feet of sugar pine. The logs are brought from the mountains
twenty to twenty-five miles by rail, and sawn into lumber at Tuolumne. I
was told that the bulk of the lumber manufactured here was shipped
abroad, a great deal going to Australia.
Tuolumne, in Bret Harte's time, was called Summersville. It was
destroyed by fire about fourteen years ago, but the new town has already
so assimilated itself to the atmosphere of its surroundings, that its
comparative youth might easily escape detection. Altogether, I was
disappointed with Tuolumne, having expected to find a second Angel's,
owing to its prominence in Bret Harte's stories. A lumber camp, while an
excellent thing in its way, is neither picturesque nor inspiring. I
spent the night at the "Turnback Inn," a large frame building,
handsomely finished interiorly and built since the fire. It is, I
believe, quite a summer resort, as Tuolumne is the terminus of the
Sierra Railway, and one can go by way of Stockton direct to Oakland and
San Francisco.
Returning to Angel's the next day, I lingered again at Tuttletown. There
is a strange attraction about the place - it would hold you apart from
its associations, The old hotel, fast going to decay, surrounded by
splendid trees whose shade is so dense as to be impenetrable to the
noon-day sun, is a study for an artist. And as I gazed in a sort of
day-dream at the ruins of what once was one of the liveliest camps in
the Sierras - with four faro tables running day and night - the pines
seemed to whisper a sigh of regret over its departed glories. Jackass
Hill is fairly honeycombed with prospect holes, shafts and tunnels. I
was surprised to see that even now there is a certain amount of prospect
work going forward, for I noticed several shafts with windlasses to
which ropes were attached; and, in fact, was told that the old camp
showed signs of a new lease of life.
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