XIV
THE END OF THE ROAD
Beyond Reno the ascent of the Sierra Nevada begins, and you pass Lake Tahoe, six thousand feet high, the most delightful summer-resort region in America. The Lincoln Highway joins the other routes here, and is really a highway, making a glorious finish in Lincoln Park, San Francisco. One of the finest views is the mighty canyon of the American River, with the timbered gorge and the rushing stream two thousand feet below. You are held spellbound by the scenery, as you descend the western slope to Sacramento, the capital of California, 125 miles from San Francisco.
The city of Sacramento is beautifully situated on the river of the same name, and has the distinction of being the first white settlement in interior California. The old fort built by John A. Sutter for protection against the Indians is kept as a museum of early-day relics. It was an employee of General Sutter who first discovered gold in California, and the first nugget was tested and its value determined inside this old adobe fort.
The capitol building, a classic structure, is situated in a park of thirty-four acres of wonderful trees and shrubs, brought from every portion of the world. The Crocker Art Gallery boasts of the finest collection of art treasures belonging to any municipality west of New York. The ride to San Francisco, of one night, is a popular trip on the fine large steamers through the Sacramento Valley, noted for its vast wealth of agriculture and fruit.
Stockton, also, is an interesting city, with its eleven public parks. Acacia, orange, umbrella, and palm trees line the streets, making the city a veritable park. West of the city are the largest peatlands in the United States, on ground that has been reclaimed by means of levees. The fields of grain and alfalfa are equal to any in the states we had visited. With four hundred miles of navigable waterways, transportation facilities are exceptional, and it is small wonder these valleys of the Sacramento and the San Joaquin are the banner “growing section” of the state. It was like driving through a private estate all the way to Oakland, where our first view of glorious San Francisco harbor greeted us.
Oakland and Berkeley, “the bedrooms” of San Francisco (as a prominent banker explained to us), are on the east shores of the bay. On the front of the City Hall in Oakland (which, by the way, we were told is the tallest building in California) was the sign, typical of these open-hearted people, “Howdy, Boys!” (to the returning soldiers) in place of the proverbial “Welcome.”
Oakland is a large, rapidly growing city, with its fine two-million-dollar Hotel Oakland occupying an entire block. The Municipal Auditorium, seating thirteen thousand people, is near the shores of Lake Merritt, in the City Park. It is a great railway center, the terminus of the Southern Pacific, Santa Fe, and Western Pacific lines. From here you take the ferry to San Francisco.
Berkeley is so near that we did not realize that we were not in Oakland. Days can be thoroughly enjoyed spent here at the University of California, the second largest educational institution in the world, commanding a view of the Golden Gate, the bay, and San Francisco. Early in the eighteenth century, Bishop George Berkeley of Cloyne, Ireland, came to America to establish colleges. In recognition of his devotion to the cause of learning, this city was named for him. His prophetic words, “Westward the course of empire takes its way,” have been justified and realized in California. On the university campus, the Sather Campanile towers above all the other buildings at a height of over three hundred feet.
The most distinctive feature of the university is the Greek Theater, in a hollow of the hills, planned on lines similar to those of the ancient theater at Epidaurus. The equable climate makes it possible to hold outdoor performances at any season of the year. We were told that ten thousand people could be seated comfortably. “Every artist who visits the Coast aspires to appear in our Greek Theater,” said our informant, and added with pride, “Sarah Bernhardt, Nordica, Tetrazzini, Gadski, Schumann-Heink, and Josef Hofmann have all been here—yes, and ‘Big Bill’ Taft too.” Since then, President Wilson addressed a capacity audience here.
As we knew that we should visit both of these cities many times, we drove to the wharf and boarded a ferry-boat holding seventy-five cars, which would land us at our destination, San Francisco. While crossing the harbor, which is seventy-five miles long and in places fifteen miles wide, almost surrounded by high peaks, let me try to picture to you the scene that greeted our eager eyes. It was about seven o’clock in the evening. The rays of the setting sun made a glow over the water and the distant city, touching the tops of the hills with an artist hand. To the northwest, crowning the scene like a giant sentinel, was Mt. Tamalpais. What Fujiyama is to the people of Japan, Mt. Tamalpais is, in a less oriental way, to the Californians. Whether you see it at sunrise or sunset, or standing out in bold relief against the noonday sky, or with the moon silvering its summit, or wrapped in a mist of clouds, it is a glorious sight, a never-to-be-forgotten picture. Below this summit is the dense wilderness of the Muir Woods, named in honor of John Muir, the celebrated California naturalist, with 295 acres of towering redwood trees, the famous Sequoia sempervirens, many attaining two hundred feet in height.
Back of the city are the Twin Peaks, with a boulevard encircling their heights, looking down on the harbor, alive with ships from every land—from the islands of the South Seas, the Mexican West Coast, China, Japan, Siberia, tropic America, British Columbia, Australasia, and our own dependencies of Alaska, Hawaii, and the Philippines—dressed with the flags of every country, and above them all, floating in its majesty, the Stars and Stripes, in honor of the arrival of the Pacific fleet, which, under command of Admiral Rodman, had passed through the Golden Gate that day and swung at anchor in the harbor—fifty splendid battleships of all descriptions, ablaze with lights. And small craft, from high-powered motor launches to fishing-boats, “wind-jammers,” or old-time sailing-vessels, ocean liners, great freighters, transports, and tramps, all formed a part of the scene along the Embarcadero, where lie at anchor the ships that bear the merchandise and products of the world to this gateway of the West—over seven million tons of freight yearly. The true heroes of sea fiction man these ships—rugged, venturesome men, with whom Stevenson, Frank Norris, and Jack London have peopled their books and pictured their scenes of the water-front of the city.
We were landed at the ferry slip, and with a sensation never to be forgotten we drove off the wharf into San Francisco—“the city loved around the world,” built upon hills overlooking the expanse of the Pacific, with a cosmopolitan throng of half a million people. We could not have reached here at a more fortunate or auspicious time. San Francisco was en fete in honor of the fleet. Every street and building was festooned with flags, banners, and garlands of flowers; the crowds of people were carrying flowers and waving flags. Market Street, the Broadway of the city, was arched with flowers, and suspended from the largest arch was a huge floral bell of the native golden poppies. All public conveyances and even private cars were decorated. Searchlights illuminated the scene. Bands were playing, auto-horns were tooting, and the air was alive with excitement—joyous, overbubbling pleasure, that had to find a vent or blow up the place.
All of the hotels were packed. The St. Francis looked like the Waldorf on New Year’s Eve. It was some hours before we found refuge in the Bellevue, a fine residential hotel on Geary Street.
The next day the Transcontinental Government Motor Convoy arrived, which added to the celebration that lasted a week. It had come over the Lincoln Highway, with every conceivable experience; the gallant young officer in command, Lieutenant-Colonel Charles McClure, told us at dinner the next evening that “Our worst experiences were in the desert. The sand was so deep and the trucks were so heavy that at times we only made a mile an hour. When one got stuck, the men cut the sagebrush and filled the ruts, and then we were able to crawl.” The city gave them an ovation, and “dined” them as well—and doubtless would have liked to have “wined” them also.
The next day we were in the thick of the whirl. I did not consider our trip really ended until we stood on the sands of the Pacific. We motored through the city, out to the former Exposition grounds, where but a few buildings were left standing, and to the Presidio, one of the oldest military stations in our country, embracing an area of 1542 acres, overlooking the harbor. The formidable coast defenses make San Francisco the best-fortified city in America. Farther to the east is Fort Mason, the residence of the commanding officer of the Western Division; also, the transport docks, the only ones owned by our Government.
Driving through Lincoln Park, we entered Golden Gate Park, covering 1013 acres, with hundreds of varieties of plant life from all parts of the world, artificial lakes, boulevards, and the gorgeous flowers for which California is famed. We could hardly realize that at one time this was but a desolate expanse of sand-hills. Within the park is the stadium, the largest athletic field of its kind in America, thirty acres in all, seating sixty thousand spectators. The park extends to the Ocean Beach Boulevard, on the edge of the sands, where the breakers come bounding in against the Seal Rocks and the high promontory on which the Cliff House stands. The water is cold, and a dangerous undertow makes bathing unsafe, but the shore is lined with cars; hundreds of people and children are on the sand, and the tame sea-gulls are walking on the street pavement very much like chickens.
We went up to the historic Cliff House, the fourth of the name to be built on these rocks. Since 1863, the millionaires of this land and the famous people of the world have dined here, watching the sea-lions play on the jagged reefs. It is closed now, and looks as deserted as any of the tumble-down old buildings which surround it.
Along the Golden Gate shore for miles are points of interest and charming homes. Many of the bungalows are surrounded by flowers of every description and color, with apparently no attempt to segregate them. All shades of pink, reds, and purples are jumbled together; the sides of the houses are covered with vines, geraniums, heliotrope, fuchsias, and endless other plants, just one heavenly blotch of color! These little gardens seem to say, “Everything will grow in here; it may not be according to the ethics of landscape gardening, but at least you will love it”—and you do! We were especially struck with the absence of large grounds, even about the more pretentious homes, except, of course, out of the city, where the estates are the last word in beauty and luxury. There is a joyousness about the native Californian that is a revelation. In other cities the people were proud of the homes, or the buildings, or the commercial life, or something man-made; here they just seem to glory in the sunshine, the climate, the scenery, and the flora—in fact, everything God-given. The “joy of living” expresses it—to me, at least. I can better understand now the feeling of California friends living in New York. “The place stifles me; I want to get back to the golden sunshine.” Frankly, I used to think it a pose. I apologize!
Then, people have time here to be polite. On my first street-car ride, an elderly lady was hurrying to get off. “Take your time, madam,” said the polite conductor, and assisted her off. In New York it would be, “Step lively there; step lively!” giving her a shove. In getting on a car my heel caught and I banged my knee. The conductor said, “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.” In New York, if he noticed it at all, the conductor would have looked to see if I had injured the car!
“San Francisco has only one drawback; ’tis hard to leave,” said Rudyard Kipling. That is true. I would like to speak in detail of so many things—the fine hotels and municipal buildings, the beautiful country clubs and golf links; the old Dolores Mission and the churches; the Latin Quarter, Chinatown, and Portsmouth Square, the favorite haunt of Robert Louis Stevenson when a resident here; the Fisherman’s Wharf, where the net-menders sit at their task with stout twine and long wooden needles, like a bit of “Little Italy”; of the fogs that keep everything green in the dry season, and in an hour’s time disappear as if by magic, leaving the sunshine to cheer you; of the steep streets and houses built on “stepladders”; of Nob Hill, with its one-time sumptuous homes, now turned into clubs, and the splendid Fairmont Hotel, built upon the Fair estate. Books have been written on the restaurants of this city—French, Italian, Mexican, Spanish, Greek, and Hungarian—varying in price and in character of cuisine, with many high-class “after theater” cafés, frequented by the more exclusive patrons. Tait’s at the Beach resembles the Shelburne at Brighton Beach or Longvue on the Hudson.
Soon after our arrival came the visit of the President and his party. Politics were discarded. He was the guest of the city. San Francisco certainly spells “hospitality,” and proved it. The decorations left from the welcome to the Pacific fleet and the Motor Convoy were still beautiful, but more were added. “A mass of waving flags” about describes it. A solid wall of humanity lined the streets, with thousands of children carrying fresh flowers and banners. Old Sol, in all his glory, challenged a fog to mar the splendor of his welcome. The luncheon of sixteen hundred women at the famous Palace Hotel spoke of the public spirit of their sex. No Eastern city could boast of a more attractive gathering. It was an interesting sight to see that assemblage sit in silence for over an hour, listening to a man; no matter what their private opinions were, they wanted to hear first-hand the convictions of their President—and they did, in plain Anglo-Saxon terms. But I have digressed, and left the reader and the car on the Ocean Drive.
Yes, this was indeed “the end of the road,” with all of California yet to see. We had traversed the continent from the Atlantic to the Pacific without an accident or a day’s illness, and with only two punctures! We look back on comparatively few discomforts, and many, many pleasures and thrilling experiences, with keen satisfaction.
Unless you really love to motor, take the Overland Limited. If you want to see your country, to get a little of the self-centered, self-satisfied Eastern hide rubbed off, to absorb a little of the fifty-seven (thousand) varieties of people and customs, and the alert, open-hearted, big atmosphere of the West, then try a motor trip. You will get tired, and your bones will cry aloud for a rest cure; but I promise you one thing—you will never be bored! No two days were the same, no two views were similar, no two cups of coffee tasted alike. In time—in some time to come—the Lincoln Highway will be a real transcontinental boulevard. But don’t wish this trip on your grandchildren! The average motorist goes over five thousand miles each season, puttering around his immediate locality. Don’t make a “mental hazard” of the distance. My advice to timid motorists is, “Go.”
I have not tried to give a detailed description of anything in this brief narrative of our trip. Just glimpses here and there of the day’s run, which may stimulate some “weak sister” to try her luck, or perchance spur the memory of those who have “gone before us.”
EXPENSES
In giving a table of our expenses, it is unimportant to give in detail the amount of the tips to porters or chambermaids, or to state what the hotel bill was in each place. That depends upon the individual—whether you care to have more or less expensive accommodations, or to what extent you care to indulge in “extras.”
We paid (for two) from three to six dollars a night for room and bath, but in all cases there were cheaper ones to be had. The matter of restaurant bills is also a personal item. In giving the cost of hotels, I have included breakfast and dinner. The lunches are listed as “extras.” The garage expenses included storage and washing the car. A night’s storage varied from $1.50 in the East to fifty cents in the West. The cost of washing the car was from $1.00 to $2.50, also depending on the locality. Every man knows how often he wants his car cleaned. One New York man that we met in Minnesota told us that his car had not been washed since he left. It looked it! This, by the way, was the only New York license that we saw west of Chicago. Rather remarkable!
Our total mileage was 4154 miles—thirty-three running days. We used 338 gallons of gas (21 to 40 cents), $99.80; sixty-one quarts of medium oil (15 to 35 cents), $12.80; garage, storage and cleaning, $28.50; hotels and boat fares for seven weeks for two, $256; extras (laundry, lunches, postcards, postage, fruit, etc.), $51.38; tips, $50; expenses in Yellowstone Park (including entry fee for car, $7.50), $100; work on car in service stations (looking over, oiling, etc.), $64.24; D. & C. boat from Cleveland to Detroit, for car, $14.50. Total, $677.22, or about $13.50 a day for fifty days (for two people).
Additional expenses were adjustment on new tire (never used), $35; cost of shipping car across desert, $196.69; railroad tickets (including drawing-room, $17.75), $72.50. Total, $304.19.
We might eliminate the new tire adjustment of $35, and if we had driven across Nevada it would easily have been two hundred dollars less, but we should doubtless have had repair bills to balance that sum and more. Except for gas, oil, and garage expenses, the rest can be easily adjusted, according to the individual, and lessened considerably. And remember that includes a war-tax on many things.
This trip can be taken in perfect comfort by two people for thirteen dollars a day, including everything, which means that you are traveling as well as living. Not bad, considering the “H. C. of L.” today!
THE END