Byways Around San Francis...o...b..y.

by William E. Hutchinson.

Sunset in the Golden Gate

When day is done there falls a solemn hush: The birds are silent in their humble nest.

Then comes the Master Artist with his brush, And paints with brilliant touch the golden west.

The blended colors sweep across the sky, And add a halo at the close of day.

Their roseate hues far-reaching banners fly, And gild the restless waters of the bay.

Mount Tamalpais stands in purple 'tire Against the background, Phoenixlike, ornate: Apollo drives his chariot of fire Between the portals of the Golden Gate.

No other hand than His who rules on high, Could wield the brush and spread such bright array Upon the outstretched canvas of the sky, Then draw the curtain of departing day.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Brook and Waterfall

California, the land of sunshine and roses, with its genial climate, its skies as blue as the far-famed skies of Venice, and its pure life-giving air, invites the lover of nature to take long tramps over hill and dale, mountain and valley, and to search out new trails in the rugged mountains.

It is a common sight to see parties of men and women meet at the ferry building, dressed in khaki suits, with knapsacks strapped on their backs, waiting to take the boat across the bay to some of the numerous places of interest. There are plenty to choose from, but most of them go to the same places over and over, instead of searching out unfrequented nooks that give one a feeling of proprietorship when discovered. It is an old saying, and a trite one, that "Familiarity breeds contempt." It is certainly true, however, that we often pa.s.s over the familiar and commonplace to go into raptures over some lofty mountain peak, ignoring the gems that lie hidden away at its very base.

There is a quiet beauty in the broad sweep of the valley, a stately majesty in the towering mountains, a restful grandeur in the rounded domes of the tree-clad hills, and an element of strength in the broad sweep of the ocean. One never tires of watching the constant change of light and shade, for they never appear twice alike. But we are in search of unfrequented nooks, the byways that others pa.s.s unnoticed, so we leave the prominent to seek out the obscure.

To enjoy the out-of-doors at its best one needs a congenial companion; one who does not tire on the trail nor find fault with the little annoying things that are bound to occur on a long journey, but who, in the silent contemplation of G.o.d's handiwork, best expresses his appreciation of its wonderful beauty in silence; for there are times when silent enjoyment of a landscape produces a subtle interchange of thought that speaks louder than words.

Such a one is Hal, more like a brother than a son, and in winding over tortuous trails and climbing the rugged sides of mountains we have become good comrades; bound together by the invisible tie of "Nature Lovers" and the "Call of the Wild," as well as the greater bond of kinship.

One could not begin to tell of the pleasure derived from these rambles over valley and mountain, not to speak of the health-giving exercise in the open air. They are far better than doctors' prescriptions, for they drive the cobwebs from the brain, bring refreshing slumber, a new light to the eye, elasticity to the step, and keep one young in spirit, if not in years.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LAUGHTER OF THE BROOK]

It was a bright June morning when Hal and I took the ferryboat for Sausalito, then by train to Mill Valley. It was just cool enough to make walking a pleasure, and after the clamor of the city the somber shadows of the forest, with its solitude, seemed like a benediction.

On every side the giant redwoods tower hundreds of feet in air, straight and imposing, while the ground, on which the pine needles and crumbling bark have formed a brown mold, is as soft and springy to the tread as a velvet carpet.

The resinous, aromatic odor of the pines, combined with the fresh woodsy fragrance, is like a tonic. Just ahead of us we see a growth of manzanitas, with their smooth purple-brown bark and pinkish white flowers in crowded cl.u.s.ters, standing out vividly against the background of oaks and firs, and we sink knee-deep amid the ferns and blue and yellow lupine. It seems almost sacrilegious to trample these exquisite violet-hooded flowers beneath our feet.

Close to the trail a little mountain brook sings merrily over its pebbly bed, dodging in and out among the rocks, or chuckling in glee as it dashes in mimic fury over some unseen obstacle, as if it were playing hide and seek with the shadows along the bank. And we stop to rest and listen with pleasure to the music of its woodland melody. A song sparrow joins in the chorus with his quaint sweet lullaby, like the tinkling of Venetian gla.s.s, his notes as clear and delicate as a silver bell. He evidently believes that singing lightens his labors, for he is industriously gathering material for the new home he is building close at hand aided by his demure mate, who, in reality, does most of the work.

[Ill.u.s.tration: BROOK AND WATERFALL]

The trail grows steeper and harder to climb as we ascend. We hear the sound of falling water ahead of us, and around a bend in the path, and through an opening in the trees, we come upon a beautiful waterfall pouring over the rocks like a bridal veil.

We drop our cameras and scramble down the rocks, drinking cup in hand, and slake our thirst at this crystal fountain. Was ever a more delightful draught for thirsty mortals than from this little pool hidden away here in this mountain fastness? It is a place in which druids and wood-nymphs might revel, surrounded on all sides by stately trees and moss-grown rocks, fringed with ferns of all kinds, from the delicate maidenhair to the wide-spreading shield variety, bordered with blue and gold lupine (California's colors), and close to the falls, a bush thickly covered with white flowering dogwood blossoms, standing out like a rare painting against the green-and-brown background--a spot to thrill the soul of an artist. Yet how many had ever found this sylvan retreat, hidden away, as it is, from the main highway?

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Mountain and Valley

It is hard for us to leave the falls with all their surrounding beauty, and with reluctance we take one last look at this delightful glen planted in the heart of the wilderness, and strike out on the upward trail.

At a turn in the path, where it seems as if we were about to walk off into s.p.a.ce, we get a glimpse through the trees of Mount Tamalpais.

Towering above us with its seam-scarred sides, rent and torn by the storms of centuries, it rears its jagged dome amid the clouds. We can just make out a train of diminutive cars winding a tortuous course in and out around the curves, the toy engine fighting every inch of the steep incline, and panting like an athlete with Herculean efforts to reach the summit. Across the intervening s.p.a.ce a hawk wheels and turns in ever-widening circles. We watch him through the gla.s.s, rising higher and higher with each successive sweep, until he fades into a mere speck in the distant blue.

Up we climb, until another view discloses the valley below us like a panorama. We creep out to the very edge, and for miles in either direction it stretches away, as if some giant hand had cleaved for himself a pathway between the mountains. We stand spellbound, entranced by the wonderful beauty of the scene, and drink long draughts of the fresh mountain air.

The dazzling splendor of the noonday sun brings out vividly the variegated colors of the foliage, and banks of white fleecy clouds floating overhead trail their shadows over the valley and up the mountainside like ghostly outriders. The pointed tops of the fir trees, miles below us, look like stunted shrubbery; the buildings in Mill Valley seem like dolls' houses nestling among the trees; while far in the distance the blue waters of the bay glisten in the sunshine, Alcatraz Island rises out of its watery bed, and San Francisco stands silhouetted against the distant hills.

We are lost in wonder at the grand spectacle spread out before us; it is a very fairyland of enchantment, as if brought into being by the genii of Aladdin. For nearly an hour we watch the lights and shadows flicker over the valley, the high lights in sharp contrast to the deep dark purples of the canon.

On the far side of the valley the sloping hills are covered with that most exquisite flower, the California poppy, its countless millions of golden blossoms fairly covering the earth. It is a sun worshiper, for not until the warm sun kisses its golden head does it wake from its slumbers and throw open its tightly rolled petals. No wonder the Spanish mariners sailing along the coast and seeing these golden flowers covering the hills like a yellow carpet called this "The Land of Fire." This beautiful flower is one of California's natural wonders--"Copa-de-oro"--cup of gold. It is as famed in the East as in the West, and thousands come to California to see it in its prodigal beauty. Steps should quickly be taken to conserve this wild splendor, and restrictions should be put upon the vandals, who, not content with picking what they can use to beautify the home, tear them up by the roots just to see how large an armful they can gather, scattering their golden petals to the four winds of heaven when they begin to droop.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Turn of the Trail]

An old dead pine, whitened by many storms, its gnarled and twisted branches pathetic in their shorn splendor, is brought into prominence by the background of vivid green into which it seems to shrink, as if to hide its useless naked skeleton.

But the lengthening shadows in the valley warn us to begin our descent, and as we have no desire to sleep out on the trail without blankets or other camp comforts, we begin our return trip by another route. Light wisps of fog begin to gather around the top of Mount Tamalpais, and we hasten our steps, for to be caught in a fog at this alt.i.tude may mean a forced camp, with all its attending discomforts.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY]

We pause for a moment on the margin of a little lake nestling amid the hills, its blue waters, unruffled by the wind in its sheltered nook, reflecting back as in a mirror the trees that surround it on all sides. But we may not linger to drink in the beauty of this quiet spot, where the red deer once slaked their thirst at its quiet margin, standing kneedeep in the rushes and lilypads.

Ahead of us a blue jay, that tattler of the woods, flashes his blue coat in and out among the trees; always saucy, impertinent, and suspicious, bubbling over with something important to tell, and afraid he will not be the first to tell it. When he discovers us watching, he sets up his clamorous cry of "Thief! Thief!" and hurries away to spread the alarm. A mighty borrower of trouble, this gayly dressed harlequin of the woods, and yet the forest would not seem complete without his gay blue vestments.

Suddenly we find ourselves in a cul-de-sac; the trail coming to an abrupt end. We retrace our steps, and after much searching, find a narrow trail almost hidden by vines and underbrush. Venturing in, we follow its tortuous and uneven course along the edge of the canon, and, as the evening shadows gather, and the stars come out one by one, tired and dust-covered, we reach the valley, and enjoy the moonlight ride across the bay to San Francisco.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Canon and Hillside

Did you ever see the Berkeley hills in the early morning, just before the sun comes stealing over their rounded domes, or in the evening, just before it sinks beneath the waters of the bay, and casts its waning light over their rugged sides?

There never was a more pleasing sight than their uneven profile sharply drawn against the grayish purple. Watch them as they gradually a.s.sume shape out of the decreasing shadows. The blotches of green and brown take form and grow into canons and gullies, rocks and towers, domes and minarets. What a place to build a mosque, and say one's prayers to the rising sun!