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.
Musing on Tuttletown and its environment later on got me into serious
difficulty. Having crossed the Stanislaus River and cleared the canon, I
abandoned the main road for an alleged "cut-off." This I was following
with the utmost confidence, when, to my surprise, it came to an abrupt
end at the foot of a steep hill. In the ravine below was a house, and
there fortunately I found a man of whom I inquired if I was in "Carson
Flat." "Carson Flat? Well, I should say not! You're 'way off!" "How
much?" I asked feebly. "Oh, several miles." This in a tone that implied
that though I was in a bad fix, it might possibly be worse. However,
with the invariable kindness of these people, he put me on a trail
which, winding up to the summit of a ridge, struck down into Carson Flat
and joined the main road. And there I registered a vow: "The hard
highway for me!" As a consequence of this deviation, I materially
lengthened the distance to Angel's. It is thirty miles from Tuolumne by
the road, to which, by taking the "cut-off," I probably added another
three!
It is surprising how these towns grow upon one. Already the Angel's
Hotel seemed like home to me and after an excellent dinner, I joined the
loungers on the side-walk and became one of a row, seated on chairs
tilted at various angles against the wall of the hotel. And there I
dozed, watching the passing show between dreams; for in the evening when
the electric lights are on, there is a sort of parade of the youth and
beauty of the town, up and down the winding street.
On account of the great heat that even the dry purity of the Sierra
atmosphere could not altogether mitigate, I decided the next day to be
content with reaching San Andreas, the county seat of Calaveras County,
fifteen miles north of Angel's.
Apart from its name, there is something about San Andreas that suggests
Mexico, or one's idea of pastoral California in the early days of the
American occupation. The streets are narrow and unpaved and during the
midday heat are almost deserted. Business of some sort there must be,
for the little town, though somnolent, is evidently holding its own; but
there seems to be infinite time in which to accomplish whatever the
necessities of life demand. And I may state here parenthetically, that
perhaps the most impressive feature of all the old California mining
towns is their suggestion of calm repose. Each little community seems
sufficient unto itself and entirely satisfied with things as they are.
Not even in the Old World will you find places where the current of life
more placidly flows.
On the main street - and the principal street of all these towns is
"Main Street" - I had the good fortune to be introduced to Judge Ira H.
Reed, who came to Calaveras County in 1854, and has lived there ever
since. He told me that Judge Gottschalk, who died a few years ago at an
advanced age, was authority for the statement that Mark Twain got his
"Jumping Frog" story from the then proprietor of the Metropolitan Hotel,
San Andreas, who asserted that the incident actually occurred in his
bar-room. Twain, it is true, places the scene in a bar-room at Angel's,
but that is doubtless the author's license. Bret Harte calls Tuttletown,
"Tuttleville," and there never was a "Wingdam" stage.
That evening as I lay awake in my bedroom at the Metropolitan Hotel,
wondering by what person of note it had been occupied in the "good old
days," my attention was attracted to the musical tinkle of a cow-bell.
Looking out of the window, I beheld the strange spectacle of a cow
walking sedately down the middle of the street. No one was driving her,
no one paid her any attention beyond a casual glance, as she passed. The
cow, in fact, had simply come home, after a day in the open country; and
it became plain to me that this was a nightly occurrence and therefore
caused no comment. Unmolested, she passed the hotel and on down the
street to the foot of the hill, where she evidently spent the night; for
the tinkle of the bell became permanent and blended with and became a
part of the subtle, mysterious sounds that constitute Nature's sleeping
breath.
This little incident in the county seat of Calaveras County impressed me
as an epitome of the changes wrought by time, since the days when in
song and story Bret Harte made the name "Calaveras" a synonym for
romance wherever the English language is spoken.
From San Andreas my objective point was Placerville, distant about
forty-five miles. The heat still being excessive, I made the town by
easy stages, arriving at noon on the third day. Mokelumne Hill, ten
miles beyond San Andreas, also lends its name to the little town which
clusters around its apex and is at the head of Chili Gulch, a once
famous bonanza for the placer miners. For miles the road winds up the
gulch, which is almost devoid of timber, amid piled-up rocks and debris,
bleached and blistered by the sun's fierce rays; the gulch itself being
literally stripped to "bedrock." I had already witnessed many evidences
of man's eager pursuit of the precious metal, but nothing that so
conveyed the idea of the feverish, persistent energy with which those
adventurers in the new El Dorado had struggled day and night with
Nature's obstacles, spurred on by the auri sacra fames.
